


Secret Diary of a Call Boy

by vinyl_octopus



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Escort Service, F/M, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:09:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt on the meme:<br/>When Martin's van breaks down, he gets himself into the call boy business and works with a booking agent to get appointments on his non-flying days. He only works occasionally, but likes it just fine; his clients are generally nice; and he finally has enough money to eat baked potatoes on a regular basis.</p>
<p>In related news, Douglas calls an old acquaintance, seeking the services of a professional sex worker. Ginger and short and male, if possible. For reasons. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Martin slammed the doors at the back of the van, suppressing a wince at the clunky creaking noise the left-hand one made. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders then got in and double-checked the address he was carrying this lot to – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d helped someone move house and the van had stalled when he was trying to follow them. He watched as Clive reversed out of the driveway in front of him in his snappy little Peugeot before pulling out behind and keeping his fingers crossed he’d be able to keep up; determinedly ignoring the stuttering thunk he could hear emanating from the engine.

 

The neighbourhood they came to was distinctly more upmarket than the one they’d left. Clive had helped Martin move his few pitiful bits of furniture and a dozen boxes out of a flat that was only one or two steps up from Martin’s attic in terms of comfort and class. Clive’s new flat was clearly much grander, placed as it was not so far from Carolyn’s grand almost-mansion – which was the only reason Martin really had to be familiar with the area. Presumably, Martin thought, Clive was moving in with someone rather better off. Although, he spared another glance at his client’s car and, as the man in question strolled over to where Martin was parked on the street, now that he thought about it, those were less the threadbare rags of the poverty-stricken and more the fashionably pre-scuffed garb of those who could afford to pay £500 for a pair of jeans. So either Clive had got himself a well-to-do lover, or he’d moved up in the world.

Martin opened his door to get out, stooping to retrieve the window crank from where it had fallen off into the gutter and tossing it carelessly into the passenger foot well to deal with later.

Clive was standing on the kerb, waiting for Martin to open the back of the van, clearly ready to help move everything again. Not always usual with his clients, although the younger ones usually did, particularly students. He spared a glance at the young man. He probably wasn’t a student. Actually, he looked closer to Martin’s age, maybe a little younger.

Together they hauled out the mattress and manoeuvred it up the walkway to the front security door. Clive swiped a pass card and they heaved the mattress towards the lift doors. The foyer was a symphony of style. All polished floors and vibrant green plants. Real ones, Martin noted. There was even a water feature. They somehow wrangled the mattress into the lift and with another swipe of the card, made it to the fifth floor. Another security door and then... Well. A broad expanse of gleaming marble floor led to a floor-to ceiling view of the town and fields beyond. Martin could only gape, before realising Clive was tugging the mattress in the opposite direction – towards the lush, but empty, bedroom.

They dumped the mattress on the floor. Clive hadn’t had an actual bed to move. Sitting on the thick, pristine carpet, the mattress looked even worse for wear than it had in the old place.

_And it’s still better than the one you sleep on._

Martin shifted uncomfortably as they surveyed the room. A built-in wardrobe took up one wall, while a second door, half open, offered a glimpse of a glossy en suite. Clive was gazing out of yet more floor to ceiling windows with a slowly broadening grin.

“I can’t believe this is actually _mine_.” He shook his head slightly, then registered Martin standing awkwardly behind him.

The man with a van offered a small smile. “It really is lovely. Much...um...nicer than...than...er...” He stammered to a halt realising how rude that sounded, and flushed.

“Than my old place?” Clive laughed. “Yes, well, that really was a dump; but that was all I could afford before...” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “Anyway! Let’s get the rest of my stuff.”

“Of course,” said Martin, “But you know, I can probably move the rest up. If you want to get settled. I mean, you are paying me to move your things, after all.”

“Don’t be silly,” Clive dismissed Martin’s suggestion with a wave and led the way back down to the van.

 

Between them they managed to get everything else into the lift in just a few trips, wedging the door with one of the heavier boxes and causing an alarm to go off. No other residents came out to complain though, so they laughed conspiratorially as they did the same on the fifth floor, removing everything again. The sum total of Clive’s belongings didn’t even take up the whole of the flat’s foyer. They looked, Martin thought, rather pitiful.

Clive obviously caught his stray thought and chuckled ruefully. “I look like I’ve broken in to squat.”

Martin snorted. “It does a bi- WAIT. I mean, no. No! Not at all!”

He huffed. “I’m sorry. I just mean...this place is very nice... once you’ve... I mean... you just need to...” He ran his fingers through his hair disgustedly. “ **I** would have looked like a squatter in your **old** place, so...”

Clive raised a dark eyebrow, looking Martin up and down. “You’re wondering how someone like me can afford somewhere like this.”

“Ye- NO! God. Not at all.”

“Yes, you are. You thought I was moving in with a rich girlfriend.”

“I-I...I...”

Clive was grinning openly now.

“I’m not,” Martin sighed at last. “I’m just a man with a van. I’m not thinking anything.”

Clive took pity on him. “Look, I’d offer you a drink but as you can see, I don’t have a fridge... or anything else much. I was, um, rather keen to just move out of the old place. But... if you don’t have another job to get to, would you like to grab a pint? I saw a pub just down the road on the way here...”

Martin considered. He didn’t have another job on, which was rather why he needed to think this over. Because this job? Really wasn’t going to pay much. Certainly not enough to cover the rent. Definitely not enough to cover repairing The Mysterious Engine Noise. And, if he bought a round at the pub, possibly not enough for food to cover him until the next job.

“If money’s a problem–” Clive started quietly.

 “What? No!” Martin flushed – was it _that_ obvious he was so down on his luck? “No, it’s fine. Great. I don’t have another job. A, uh, pint would be lovely.”

  _Smooth, Martin._

 

They wandered around the corner to the pub, which was about as posh as Martin had expected for this area of a town. The sort of place that called itself a gastropub and priced its menu accordingly. He insisted on buying the first round – “to celebrate your new home!” and determined to stick to the one. He had to drive anyway, so it wouldn’t be hard. Clive insisted on buying a basket of chips to share and pretended not to notice the half-starved way Martin devoured his share.

In no time they were chatting comfortably. Clive’s old flat had not been far from Parkside Terrace and for all Clive had clearly moved up in the world, they found themselves sharing various stories about the neighbourhood. Though Martin spent most of his time flying away from Fitton, the vast majority of his man with a van jobs were in the local area – even if sometimes that meant moving someone or something halfway across the country.

“What did you mean you would have looked like a squatter in my old place?” Clive ventured, eventually. “That place is a dive... Oh – you’re not actually a squatter are you?” As horrified as he sounded, it was clear it was his own possible faux pas rather than the idea of squatting that embarrassed him.

Martin laughed a little. “No. Well. Not yet. It’s just... God, I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. But well, I don’t earn much doing this–” he waved an arm in the vague direction of the van they’d left around by the flat. “This is, well it’s not a side job; it’s my only job, but... I’m actually a pilot. Captain. Of an air...dot. Flying takes up most of my time but,” he rushed on, seeing Clive ready to ask the obvious question, “I don’t actually get paid.”

Clive took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “I see. And this, do you enjoy this?”

“Oh, God no. I mean, it’s fine. It’s always nice to meet people, I suppose.” Martin tried not to think about the fact that he was always a lot more comfortable and capable meeting People as a Man with a Van than as a Captain - therein lay a madness he didn’t want to contemplate. “But, you know, it doesn’t pay that well and I can only do this when I’m not flying or on standby, so...Well. I’m used to feeling like I’m always one step away from getting evicted or...you know. Whatever. Your old ‘dive’ is probably 3 times the size of where I live. And much better insulated.” He chuckled.

 Clive was still looking at him thoughtfully.

 “You know. You’re not in bad shape.”

 Martin’s sip of beer took an unexpected detour down the front of his shirt.

 “Not like that,” Clive assured him, apparently unfazed by the spluttering. “Unless...”

 Martin was still staring at him.

“You’re in good shape. Good at paperwork too, I imagine – running your own business?”

 Martin’s brow furrowed.

 “No doubt got a pretty well-rounded knowledge of the world – all the big cities. Culture etc?”

 Martin barked a laugh. “Hardly. I mean, ask me about any of the airports in Europe, or how to lift a fire truck, or how to cluck like a chicken in Spanish,” he missed Clive’s quizzical expression, “but I wouldn’t know about much else. We pretty much fly in and fly out. We don’t get much time to be tourists or properly travel. Now planes? Planes I can talk about for hours. But um,” he risked a glance at the other man, suddenly aware he was giving away rather a lot about himself, “no one ever wants to hear about that,” he finished quietly.

 “Right,” said Clive softly, he looked around the bar, but it was mostly empty. “Well, anyway. The thing is. I might...might have an idea how you could earn a little more money. If– if you’re interested.”

Martin sat up abruptly. Instantly suspicious. Visions of being arrested for drug trafficking (in a way that Douglas had never even been suspected of orchid smuggling) flashing across his mind. “It’s not anything illegal, is it? Because...”

Clive’s hand was up placatingly. “Not illegal at all, I assure you. Look, you were wondering how someone like me could suddenly afford somewhere like that? The thing is... I’m an escort.”

 Martin spluttered. “You mean, like a...a...a... p-prostitute?” _What happened to ”not illegal”?_

 A frown briefly crossed Clive’s face. “Not at all like, in fact... but that’s a...common misconception.”

 Once again, Martin’s face flooded with colour. “Then what...?”

 “Think of it like... being a... companion. It’s high class – and yes I know everyone says that but...” he fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a card. “Look. It’s not for everyone. But it’s an option. The money’s good, the hours are flexible, and the conditions are better than people would have you believe. I’m not going to do a sell-job on you because... well, I think that would be wrong too. But if you’re ever curious just... give me a call. I – I recognise a lot of myself in you, Martin. Not the high-flying captain bit of course,” and that was a self-deprecating laugh not directed against Martin at all, “but the bit about having to choose between food and shelter? I’ve been there. Not... not that long ago. So...” He trailed to a stop and just held the card out to Martin, who took it in a kind of daze.

 

The atmosphere had turned rather awkward. Martin sat dumbly, looking at the card. Wondering how it had got to the point where someone would suggest something like this to him.

How it had got to the point where he would even think about it. Even for a moment.

Clive rubbed his neck, self conscious. “Look, I... Never mind, we should probably go, yeah? I need to ah... unpack.”

Martin snapped out of his reverie, suddenly realising how rude he appeared. “Oh! Of course. And... thank you. For this. I will... well... I might...” He stumbled as he pushed back from the table.

“It’s all right, Martin. It’s not a contract or anything; it’s just an offer. To talk. If you ever want to.”

 

And three weeks later, he did want to.


	2. Chapter 2

It started with a two-week standby. During which the only man-with-a-van job he managed to book – an evening job, taking some old office furniture to a local church for a charity sale – was cancelled when they found someone else willing to **volunteer** their services. Something they neglected to mention until Martin showed up at the corporate park, 10 miles outside Fitton, and discovered the work had already been done.  
Naturally, when he tried to drive back home, the van refused to start; that clunking sound having upgraded to a more significant grinding sound that culminated in a panicking temperature gauge, a quiet pop and rather a lot of smoke pouring out from under the bonnet.

The security guard made it clear he could not leave the van there. No, not even for a couple of hours while he got help.

He spent his rent money and the last of his food money getting the van towed back to the student house. He was unsurprised to find the wheel clamped two days later. He had no hope of paying that fine. Or the repairs. He’d finished his last tin of beans the night of the charity job, having anticipated earning enough to do a proper grocery shop. No meals were catered during stand-by and Carolyn had put a stop to the biscuits in the Portakabin, insisting she was not going to pay for “treats for lazy pilots who were just lounging about”.

The students had come up with a new plan this year to make money from all their excess vegetables and were operating a mini boxed delivery service to fellow students. Leftovers were few and far between in the communal fridge.

After he’d had to turn down the third man-with-a-van job because at this point he was just a man – _and not much of one at that_ – he started to think more seriously about what Clive had said.

Which was how he found himself standing outside yet another posh apartment. He’d got his best clothes on – basically his pilot’s uniform, sans the distinctive hat and jacket. He’d pulled on his only anorak, which rather spoiled the effect. Although... since he HAD had to walk to the estate – a mere 3 miles...hilly miles...on an extremely empty stomach – and it had started raining partway there... probably... _probably_ the effect was already ruined by much more than his stupid coat. Probably the shivering, and the dripping, and the sweating, and the grey face because oh-my-god-I-think-I’m-going-to –faint-from-hunger, and the sheer nerves had or would do much more to ruin his prospects than any stupid _coat_.

 

“Prospects”. Is _this_ what he’d come to?

 

He rang the intercom.

A woman’s smokily imperious voice instructed him to enter as the buzzer sounded.

Another lushly appointed foyer greeted him as he made his way to the lifts and further to the 20th floor. As the lift doors pinged his arrival, the furthest of only two doors on this level opened and he saw Clive beckoning him over.

He entered an opulent apartment, filled with chandeliers, fresh flowers and rich fabrics.

“So you’re Martin?” that deep voice again. Martin turned to the lounge area where an immaculately presented woman sat comfortably on the white leather lounge suite. A slimline laptop perched on the glass table in front of her and a clipboard lay incongruously beside her on the couch.

Martin became aware of Clive trying to take his coat and was reminded anew of his soggy and dishevelled appearance. As he shrugged out of his anorak and cast an eye over the thick cream carpeting, he whispered, “Should I?” lifting a foot to indicate his rather wet shoes. Clive made the same assessment and nodded.

Martin toed each shoe off, belatedly remembering _both_ his socks had holes in and curling his exposed toes in further embarrassment. Still, since his shirt had also gone completely see-through in the rain, and his hair was plastered to his head, he supposed that was the least of his worries.

“Come on,” Clive held an arm out, inviting Martin to precede him into the lounge.

The woman stood up. Martin eyed her perfectly draped black dress and tastefully coiffed hair. She positively reeked money. And class. He felt like a troublesome school boy hauled before the headmistress after a punch-up. She circled him, clearly assessing his every inch. “I’m Monique,” she said finally, holding out her hand.

Martin, whose gaze had dropped to the floor in embarrassment, looked up and took her hand wetly. “Cap- I mean... Mon-M-Martin Crieff.”

“Well, Martin. And what are you doing here?”

 

_What?_

 

“I...I...that is... well...um,” He looked desperately at Clive. Was this some sort of set-up?

She sighed. “Clive has told you about our... services, has he not?”

“Um. A little.”

Clive had indeed told him about the agency. An escort agency. Catering to male and female clients. High end. Well to do. They offered company and companionship. Sometimes office work, strangely, although Martin suspected there were air quotes implied on that one. Dates for events. And, of course, although this was very strictly never mentioned at all...sex.

Clive had given him the address for the agency website – as well as a couple of information sites that offered advice to people wanting to start up their own agency. Or begin working as an escort.

“It’s not a decision to take lightly,” he’d said. “You need to know what you’d be signing up for. But... if it sounds like something you could do. That you’d want to do... then... let me know. I’ll introduce you to Monique.”

Martin had spent two days reading everything he could. Then another day panicking over the decision that...ultimately...he’d known he’d make ever since he’d rung Clive in the first place.

And now he was here.

“And you know it’s as much about charm and personality as it is about,” she gestured at Clive, undeniably handsome and dressed to impress today in well-fitting black jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that showed off his best assets... “everything else?”

Martin stammered an affirmative.

“You seem awfully nervous for someone who _wants_ to do this. I haven’t even interviewed you yet. What makes you think you could handle, even charm, a client...let alone anything else, if you can’t look _me_ in the eye?”

He flinched at the criticism.

“It’s all right to be nervous, mate,” Clive came to his rescue. “Look, how about we just sit and have a chat, yeah?” He raised an eyebrow at Monique and made to guide Martin to the couch. “I remember how **I** felt the first time I came over here.”

Monique rolled her eyes and left the room. Martin stared at the pristine sofa before him, blanching at the thought of marking the material with his rain sodden clothes. He felt something warm and heavy drop over his shivering shoulders.

“I’ve put the kettle on,” said Monique, pointedly handing a second towel to Clive. “Ordinarily I like champagne for these meetings but... I’m not quite sure you’re up to that.” She disappeared again.

Martin clutched at the towel round his neck, belatedly realising his hair had been dripping since he arrived. He scrubbed a corner of the towel over his face then rubbed at his hair, taking comfort in the warmth and momentary illusion of privacy as the towel cut off his view of the room.

Clive retreated to lean casually in the doorway, having put the other towel on the lounge so Martin could sit down without leaving a damp spot. Martin emerged from the fluffy cocoon and clutched the material round his shoulders, unaware, until now, how cold he’d been. Monique returned at that moment with a tray laden with all the accoutrements of tea and a generously piled plate of biscuits.

“Oh!” she said, noting Martin’s newly fluffed mop, “well. That is better. That I can work with. Ginger curls? Yes... I can see a few of our regulars wanting to run their fingers through those. Now here,” she passed Martin a cup and waved the biscuit plate under his nose as he sat carefully on his towel, squirming with humiliation. “You have the look of a waif who hasn’t eaten in a week.”

“Three days,” muttered Martin through a mouthful of Jammy Dodger.

For a second, Monique’s implacable mask slipped. “...and thank you” he continued.

“Right. Well. I’ll give you some time to warm up before we go any...further with the rest of it. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? We won’t be using any real details on your profile, of course, but this helps me to get an idea of who you are and how to match you up.”

 

Haltingly, Martin began telling her about being a pilot. He stopped short of explaining his payment situation, from her lack of reaction it was clear that Clive had already told her what he knew.

“And you’re a ‘man with a van’?”

“Y-Yes. Well. I was. Until...” he shrugged feebly.

“So that’s travel interests, intellect and competency covered. I’m still not sure about the charm,” she flashed a look at Clive, “but let’s see what else you have to offer. Up!” she made shooing motions with her hands.

Martin narrowly avoided spilling his tea as he banged the half-full cup down on the table in his eagerness to comply; standing, confused, still hanging on to the towel for dear life.

She heaved another sigh. “For goodness sake. I need to see what you look like – what you **really** look like, under all that. My clients pay good money for the full package. If you’re not comfortable showing me, in this situation, I can’t imagine how you think you’re going to cope with the reality of this job.”

Martin pinked a little but recognised the truth of her words. He had decided to go through with this. And this would be his first test. Not even close to the real thing. He let go of the towel and dropped it carefully on the floor behind him, then slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. When he chanced a look up, he met a coolly clinical gaze, which actually made it much easier to continue. He shucked the shirt off and began fumbling with his belt. In only a few moments he was stood in front of Monique and Clive clad in nothing but his threadbare boxers and a wince. Monique circled him again. “All right, Clive, you were right. He certainly IS fit.” She turned that assessing gaze back on Martin. “I do need to see _everything_ , Martin. I’m not going to make you parade around, but I need to know what I’m offering my clients.”

Martin swallowed. Steeled himself. Then slipped his boxers off in one move; desperately resisting the urge to hide himself behind his cupped hands.

He couldn’t look either of them in the eyes. He stared desperately at a spot in the middle distance as Monique cast her eyes up and down in that emotionless way.

 

Well. Almost emotionless.

 

He heard her let out a long slow breath. “Now that? That we can work with.” Martin shivered at the tone; the inflection and sound of glee so disturbingly reminiscent of Carolyn when she’d worked out a client was going to pay big bucks for a week or more of mostly standby. “You can get dressed now,” Monique tossed his boxers at him and he flailed inelegantly to catch them. He hauled his still-damp clothes back on as quickly as he could – happy to ignore the chilly discomfort in favour of enjoying the shielding and armour they provided.

“Right. So that’s appearance sorted – you’re a bit scrawny and short, well I can’t do anything about the short. But the scrawny, I imagine, will be sorted out once you can afford a few meals. You’ve got a good build – you’ll need to keep that up – and I think your, ah, _hidden_ assets make up for any other flaws.

“I’m confident you’ve got the general skills and knowledge we usually look for. More than, in fact. And you’re certainly articulate enough once you get going. But,” she sighed and put down the pen with which she’d been annotating the form on the clipboard, “I can’t deny that I’m a bit worried about your confidence and people skills. Honestly, Martin? Those are the most important aspects of this job. If you can’t manage those then,” she spread her hands, “I’m afraid there’s no place for you here.”

Martin slumped, thinking back to the air field bar that had not only been kept secret from him for a year, but had been moved to another secret location when everyone at the airfield decided he was too boring and annoying to put up with. Monique was right. He wouldn’t win any clients with his personality. Or charisma. Or anything at all if he thought about it.

 

Clive, who’d remained lounging against the wall during Martin’s striptease, cleared his throat.

 

“However,” she said, “I am willing to give you a chance. I don’t think we can throw you in at the deep end. But Clive here can be a very good mentor. I think if you work with him, do a few test dates, we’ll soon have the measure of you. And,” she sniffed, “if anyone can teach you how to be a Lothario, it’s this one.

“First things first. You need to look the part. This,” she indicated his clothing, “just won’t do. Our clients are top class. They’re rich and they expect quality. Oxfam specials just won’t cut it.”

Martin made to interrupt, but she held up a hand, staring sternly.

“I _know_ you can’t afford anything, Martin. It’s rare that our new escorts ever can. This...” he watched her write out a cheque that was already set up on the table next to the laptop, “is an advance for your first month. Now. Before you decide to spend all of this on rent and food and whatever else you need...” Her gaze said she’d seen and heard it all before – “I want you to go out and buy some proper clothes. I’m writing you a list of shops and labels you should aim for.”

She looked sidelong at Martin, who was frantically calculating whether he could purchase any of these things second-hand to save money. “And before you think about scrimping on these, I must remind you that we service the sorts of clients who will **know** if you’re wearing ‘vintage’. You need to do this properly or not at all. You want to earn high end money, you have to put money in and dress the part. So. You will go to these shops...I think perhaps...Clive? You could take Martin on a shopping trip? And you need to do something about that hair. You will go and see Marcus.” She scrawled more details on the page. “Nothing too short, those curls are made for the bed head look, but they do need tidying up. And you need to start using something other than supermarket brand shampoo.

“Do you wear aftershave? Cologne? You’ll need good brands of those as well, for the times when it’s safe to wear them.” She ignored the look of confusion that crossed Martin’s face. “And you’ll need a proper skincare regime. I don’t suppose you have one? Soap and water is it? Right. Not any more.” And on she went until...

 

“Oh. I wouldn’t normally ask, but I take it you’re not a virgin?”

“W-wh-what?”

“Are. You. A. Virgin? I suppose it’s all right if you are; I dare say that’s something we could work with, although I’m not entirely sure that-”

“NO!” Martin shouted, suddenly able to join the conversation. His heart was pounding. Presumably she’d deliberately left this part of the interview until the end, when he’d made the mistake of relaxing.

“Okay, good. How experienced would you say you were?”

“I... um... well... on what scale?” Martin flushed, thinking back over every unsuccessful sexual encounter he’d ever had.

Which was all the sexual encounters he’d ever had. Oh, WHY did he think he could do this?

“Well let’s say 1 is virginal and 10 is BDSM; where would you say you fit?”

_BD- what?_

 

“Um. 1 and a half?”

“Men or women?” She was brisk.

“Um...well...” For some reason this hadn’t even occurred to Martin as a consideration and he’d never admitted this to anyone before, but... “Both. Either. It...doesn’t matter.” He ventured a look at Clive, who gave him a saucy wink. Monique didn’t even flutter an eyelash.

“Anal? Blow jobs? Rimming? Toys? Handcuffs?...” Her list was extensive. Martin hadn’t heard of half the terms. She quickly recognised his look of confusion. “Anything you won’t do? We don’t tend to do the really wild stuff, Genevieve tends to run those, but it’s good to know if you can cater to any particular desires. And I need to know your limits. Again, obviously, none of this is on the record, but just in case any of your dates go particularly successfully, it’s good for me to know in advance that I have matched you up with someone ‘appropriate’.”

 

_Who’s Genevieve?_

 

“Nothing, um, painful. And I’d prefer... no humiliation.” _Because I get enough of that in my normal life._

She paused. “You understand, Martin, that although we screen our clients and most of them are very respectful, you may end up with clients who make certain comments. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No. I can handle it. I’d just... It’s not going to be a turn-on or anything. And I...I prefer no blindfolding.” _That had really gone spectacularly badly the last time._

“Is that it?”

“That I can think of.”

“All right. Well, perhaps other things will come up as we go along.

“I think that’s everything for now. I’m going to put together a rough profile for you, Martin, and I’ll want some photos once Clive has finished with you. I’m going to give you a fortnight and then we’ll talk again.

 

“Oh, and Martin? Get yourself tested in the next fortnight, won’t you?”


	3. Chapter 3

The mentoring had been tough. The trip to his doctor to get the all-important test that would clear him to work was humiliating. Clive told him later that even though they all practiced safe sex, he’d still need to get tested regularly. When Martin blanched, he told him the agency had their own doctor if he’d prefer, who knew what they did and didn’t judge – who was good for advice.

However, the shopping... was a revelation. Once he accepted that this was money he **had** to spend for his new job; once Monique – and Clive – had made it clear that he would have to spend a certain amount on these things, he managed to compartmentalise it. He deposited the cheque and withdrew the amount Clive said he’d need (because Martin had never spent so much on frivolities like clothes and hair and skincare) before it had a chance to hit his account. That way it felt less as though he was wasting money that was his.

Which was just as well, because even that first generous cheque wasn’t enough to cover everything Monique had listed _and_ his rent. He might, however, be able to afford a sack of baking potatoes. Maybe even some cheese and beans to go with them.

The van repair remained a pipe dream.

Going into the high end shops with Clive was a totally new experience that was hugely uncomfortable at first. Martin had never felt so out of place in his life – and that included when he was standing wet and shivering in Monique’s flash apartment. However, Clive seemed to have a rapport with the staff and once they saw how well the clothes hung off him and, he admitted, realised he could genuinely afford them, the sales staff flitted about, cooing and offering suggestions. He tried not to think that they knew exactly why he was buying these clothes. At least he hadn’t been marched out of the first shop they went in like Julia Roberts in that movie Caitlin had once been obsessed with. He snorted to himself as he looked at his reflection, almost unrecognisable despite the fact that it was just a different shirt and trousers.

 

“You’re standing differently,” Clive noted. “You look... taller.”

Martin quirked a smile. “I _feel_ taller. Is that ridiculous?”

“Not at all.” Clive checked his watch. “Come along, Cinderella. We need to get to Marcus or he’ll have my head!”

Martin drew the curtain back across the changing room and changed back into his scruffy clothes. He patted the fine-weave trousers and silken shirts as he gathered them up to take to the counter and determinedly didn’t twitch when the sales girls rang them up and read out the total.

“Marcus” turned out to be the head stylist at the sort of hair salon that was so exclusive Martin wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen the shop. For a man who normally got his hair clipped at the local five bob barber, it was more than a little intimidating. There were chandeliers and lounge suites. Glittering lights around each “station”. Soothing music. He was given some sort of fancy coffee concoction that featured whipped cream and an awkwardly tall glass that made it almost impossible to drink. They washed his hair and gave him a toe-curlingly blissful head massage. Marcus took brief instructions from Clive, having taken one look at Martin and judged him unfit to comment on what should be done with his hair, but waved Clive off almost as quickly. He clasped Martin’s jaw and moved his head from side to side, staring at Martin’s reflection in the mirror, clearly assessing him from every angle. Then, without a word, he clapped his hands to summon one of the assistants with a trolley. He gave Martin’s hair a light trim, leaving it much longer at the front and sides than Martin would normally allow.

 

“Sideburns?”

 Martin startled. This was the first time he’d been addressed in about half an hour.

 “Sideburns? You want? You like long or short...?”

 “Well...I...” Ordinarily Martin favoured the short, clean look as befitted a Captain but...

 “Long. Highlight these.” Marcus ran a finger over Martin’s cheekbone and along his jawline.

 Right then. Martin decided he’d just close his eyes and let the man do what he wanted.

 Eventually the snipping and razors stopped and he felt something being spritzed on his hair.

 “Bad condition. You need to take care of these curls,” Marcus slapped a range of bottles down in front of Martin. “You need to use these.”

 A hairdryer had materialised in the man’s hand and he was fluffing at Martin’s locks. Somehow, when he’d finished, Martin looked completely different, though the evidence on the floor around him showed that barely anything had been cut off.

 He gazed in the mirror. His usually-scraped-back ginger monstrosity had been transformed into something almost...

 “Sexy,” said Clive, grinning at him from behind the chair. Martin saw his own cheeks go pink as he met Clive’s gaze in the mirror.

 “You like?” asked Marcus, not as brusque now he’d finished his masterpiece.

 “Yes. I... I really do,” said Martin, tentatively putting a hand up to the fringe tumbling deliberately dishevelled over his eyebrow.

 “Good!” Marcus whisked the cape off and made a show of dusting the back of Martin’s neck.

 

Martin made his way to the counter in a daze; coming to only when they read out the amount. That was a lot more than five pounds.

 “And don’t forget these,” said Clive helpfully, dropping the armload of hair products onto the counter.

 That nearly doubled the price. Martin swallowed as he handed over almost all the rest of the cash he had on him.

 

Almost all. Luckily he had enough left for the mind boggling array of skincare products Clive insisted he needed when they finally emerged into the sun drenched street.

 

By the time they were finished, Martin was exhausted. And more than a little tense at having spent so much money on... so little.

Clive took pity on him, dragging him into a quiet cafe. “My treat,” he insisted.

Martin barely had the energy to refuse, collapsing in a heap in one of the booths with all his bags. He had a headache forming – despite that marvellous massage – and the knot of tension that had uncoiled when he’d seen his reflection during the day tightened as he allowed himself to remember exactly what he was doing and why.

 

Clive returned from the counter, where he’d ordered for both of them and took in Martin’s state with one glance.

 “I was squatting,” he announced.

 Martin looked up.

 “When I first... got started. I was squatting. I didn’t have a car. I’d been evicted from my old place. My family...well. We’re not close. I was studying, for a long time. But I couldn’t find work that fit my off hours and when my scholarship ran out. Well. I just sort of kept coasting along. I managed to find a place to squat and I’d nip into the local supermarket and pretend to browse the shelves while eating food straight off the shelves – a packet of crisps here, an apple or two there. I got caught a couple of times and thrown out of the shop, but they never charged me, thankfully. Then my girlfriend told me she was pregnant, about 4 weeks after we’d split. Neither of us could bear the thought of her getting rid of it but she couldn’t support a child on her own and I knew I needed to find money from somewhere.

“ _This_ has saved me," he jerked a hand to indicate himself and Martin's new shopping bags. "And my little girl, really. Now I can afford to pay regularly her mum is a lot more relaxed about visits – she was rightly wary when I was still squatting and she wasn’t entirely keen on my last place, either. She, uh, thinks that I work in IT. That cover story is just dull enough that it saves me having to talk about it and it explains my odd hours – she thinks I’m on phone support. But..." he sighed, "Martin I _do_ remember what it’s like to be starting out. I remember sleeping on the _street_ for God’s sake. I remember not eating for days, or having to go to the soup kitchen. I _remember_ , Martin.”

 

Martin had, at least, never had to do any of those things. And yet here he was.

 

“How did you get started, then? If you weren’t... if you didn’t...” Martin swallowed again, unsure what he was really asking. 

“How did I get into it? A friend. One of the girls I was at university with. She seemed to be unemployed, just working on a scholarship like me, but she started wearing all the nice clothes and stuff. We all thought, what with the strange hours that she disappeared, that she’d got a rich boyfriend. But eventually she admitted to me what she was doing. She knew I was always hard up for cash so she gave me Monique’s card. I was at rock bottom for a long time before I did anything about it. But I’m glad I did.

“I won’t lie to you, not every client is fun, and you do have to make your own way through the head stuff,” he tapped his head with one finger to make the point. “It took me a couple of months before the headfuck hit – and there _will_ be a headfuck. I don’t think you can walk into this and not expect your psyche to rebel at some point, but if you’ve come THIS far, probably you’ll be fine. But I can guarantee what won’t be fine is if your friends, your family, your employers find out what you do. ‘The first rule of Escort Club is you don’t talk about Escort Club.’”

Martin smiled limply. He couldn’t imagine for a second telling anyone what he was doing. He was having enough trouble admitting it to himself which, he supposed, was rather what Clive was warning him about.

“Having said that,” Clive said, a bit more comfortingly, “I do genuinely enjoy my work. For the most part the clients are lovely and the money’s good and, I dunno... look, sometimes you make a bit of a connection and you know that you've made someone feel good about themselves or you’ve made their day better and not everyone can say that about their work.”

 

“The thing is,” Martin sighed, “I’ve just spent all this money and I'm not convinced I can actually pull this off. Even if I manage to get dressed and show up on a date without, I don’t know, fainting or setting fire to myself or something, as soon as I open my mouth they’re going to know I’m a fraud.”

Clive huffed. “You should have seen me when I first started.” He gestured to his perfectly styled dark hair, deliberate stubble and rockstar-chic outfit. “I had a buzz cut, an earring, my front two teeth were chipped, and some of my clothes were provided to me by the shelter.” His face hardened for a moment. “But Monique was really kind.” He laughed a little at Martin’s sceptical expression. “No, really, Martin. It’s not everyone who would take on people like us. Most of them would laugh us out the door if we didn’t show up to the interview looking the part. Monique knows what it takes. And,” he added firmly, “she sees potential. She not only got my appearance cleaned up, she helped me find somewhere to live – and all right yes, it was a bit of a hovel. But it was _my_ hovel, and with the debts I had, even on a good income I couldn’t afford much.

“You’ve met her. She’s not exactly the charity type. She wouldn’t have given you this advance if she didn’t think you were worth it. She knows your situation. If you don’t make this work, you won’t be able to pay this money back and she knows that. She thinks you can do it. And so do I. So we just need to convince you.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”

“I’m going to coach you.”

***

Clive was as good as his word. He walked Martin through developing a new character for himself. “Believe me, you don’t want Captain Martin Crieff anywhere near this lark. You need to protect yourself. Don’t give anyone your real name, and if you can develop a different persona to go with it, even better.”

 

Martin spent a long time trying to think up the perfect name for Escort Martin. He still wouldn’t be getting his coveted “Duh-Duh-DUH-Duh-Duh” name – this reinvention only required a first name.

 

He spent even longer channelling the new character.

 

“Clients want someone confident, but they like that hint of vulnerability, too. You want them to feel as though they’re the centre of your world. Every client will be a bit different. Some will just want a, uh, ‘business’ relationship, but others want to pretend you’re their boyfriend. That means you have to give them the impression that they’re getting the real you. THIS is why you need to develop a whole character to go with the name. You don’t ever want to give the real you away to clients.

“Am I meeting the real you?” Martin wondered. “Is your name actually Clive?”

“What do you think, Martin?”

He didn’t really know what to think.

He felt a little cheated after that. Hollow.

And recognised it for the lesson it was.

 

***

Two weeks, 10 “dates” with Clive, and far too many hours learning how to use all the ridiculous new products lined up on the desk in his attic, and Martin was ready to go back to Monique.

He tugged his hair back into position and smoothed the black satin shirt, making sure there were no unsightly lumps of fabric showing through the rather close-fitting suit pants. He pulled on the matching jacket and attempted to _stride_ out the door.

He’d used up nearly all the advance so he still had to walk to Monique’s flat. By the time he arrived he had shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, cursing himself for choosing the hottest of all his new shirts for this meeting. At least it wasn’t raining this time. And, if his reflection in the foyer window was anything to go by, whatever product he’d put in his hair seemed to appreciate the rising humidity from his scalp, for his hair sat in even more perfectly artless glossy waves now than when he’d styled it earlier. Still, he was flustered and rosy-cheeked as he rang the intercom to Monique’s penthouse, and there was no reply beyond the buzz of the door unlocking. He used the time in the lift to straighten himself out and, despite being overheated from the walk, unroll his sleeves and put the jacket back on.

Once again, it was Clive who opened the door to Martin’s tentative knock; smiling approvingly as he looked Martin up and down. At least he could keep his new, freshly polished and DRY shoes on this time. Martin fiddled with his cuff as he slunk – no, sauntered! – into Monique’s lounge.

 

She was standing, expressionless, in the middle of the room. “Well, come on then. Let me have a look at you.”

Martin straightened himself as tall as he could and turned in a slow circle. Monique nodded, satisfied, as she ran a professional eye up and down his designer-clad form. “That’s much better.”


	4. Chapter 4

“We’ll take some professional photos later but for now...” Monique gestured over Martin’s shoulder to where Clive stood, beaming, holding a professional looking digital SLR camera in his hands.

“Over here, I think,” said Monique leading Martin by the arm toward the windows. She pulled one of the luscious velvet curtains across to work as a backdrop, then pointed at her dining setting. “Jacket off, sleeves up, undo a few more buttons, grab one of those chairs and give me a pose.”

 Martin did as he was told, taking a moment to try to relax. He sat himself down, ramrod straight, and plastered a smile on his face.

 Clive stifled a snort and Monique let out a choking sigh. “Clive? I thought you’d been training him?” She turned back to the hapless figure before her. “I don’t want Martin the nervous pilot, I need to sell, who was it? Lachlan the smooth-talking Lothario. Now, Lachlan, a proper pose, if you please.”

 Martin looked up to see Clive nodding at him encouragingly.

 Right. He could do this. _Just imagine....you’re in a bar. You’re meeting a client. There’s no need to be nervous; you’re going to flirt with them and nothing can go wrong because they’re a sure thing..._

 He flipped the chair around so he could straddle it, facing the back and resting his arms not-entirely-casually on the backrest. Clive made his way over, ostensibly to adjust the lamps so the light fell more flatteringly across Martin’s – Lachlan’s – face, but managing to slip a friendly shoulder squeeze in as he took the light reading.

 “Try not to look like someone is going to bite you, Mar-Lachlan. Let’s see your best, sexy bedroom eyes... come on...”

 Well that didn’t work. The first few shots came out startled and blush-ridden. But slowly, Monique and Clive managed to build his confidence and relax him to the point that they got two or three acceptable, not-too-awkward shots.

 “At LAST,” Monique rolled her eyes. “Right, let’s get these uploaded.” She grabbed the camera from Clive and plugged it into the laptop sitting on the coffee table. In a few clicks she’d added the images to the brief, suggestive, profile she’d put together on the agency site.

 

For £30 a month, Monique would host Martin’s – Lachlan’s – profile. The agency would handle his schedule and all bookings, they’d screen the clients and be on-call for monitoring purposes should anything go awry on any of Martin’s bookings. Monique/the agency would take a 30% cut of Martin’s earnings.

 

This was it. Martin was in business.

***

It wasn’t, of course, that easy. Monique’s agency already had a set of loyal clients who already had favourites, or at least knew what they wanted. She wasn’t the only agency in town, but since “town” in this case was _Fitton_ , there was limited business for their level of work as it was, and when you were a newbie and a red-headed male, business started off slow.

But it did start.

Martin’s first date was absolutely terrifying. For him. He was meeting Amanda at a hotel bar, before accompanying her to her high school reunion. This, Monique had told him, would be a pretty low-key event for him. Clive had given him a few extra tips and another warm-up date. But now he was sitting in the bar, wearing the same outfit he’d worn to Monique’s photo shoot, and was coddling an apple juice, as his insides knotted with stress.

A soft voice behind him distracted him from his inner panic.

“Excuse me, are you Lachlan?”

A rather mousy blonde in a badly fitting – though clearly expensive – skirt suit stood behind him, blinking overly made-up eyes behind bright red plastic glasses.

“Y-yes,” he squeaked, before clearing his throat and trying again with his Escort Voice. “Yes, I am. And you must be Amanda? How lovely to m-meet you.” He stood and held out his hand, simultaneously trying to pull out a chair for her - stymied when it caught on the table’s cross bar. He willed himself not to flush and tried again with two hands after they’d shaken.

Amanda sat herself down awkwardly.

“May I get you a drink?”

She acquiesced to a white wine, and it occurred to Martin, as _she_ blushed, that she was just as nervous, if not more so, than he was. For some reason this made him relax and he made it back to the table without spilling a drop of the wine.

“So... Amanda. Is this your...ten-year reunion?”

 “Oh! Stop!” she scoffed inelegantly. “Twentieth. Which I’m SURE you already knew. There’s no need to play up to me.” A few sips of wine seemed to have calmed her nerves somewhat. Martin wasn’t sure this was an improvement. “Since I’m paying for your company, I don’t think you need to attempt to charm me this evening. Particularly not if THAT’S the best you can do.” She gulped the rest of her wine.

Perhaps she was just prickly from nerves.

Martin flushed _again_.

“I’m not... I wasn’t... I just...” He sighed. “Why don’t you tell me what you would like from this evening?” He raised an eyebrow in Douglas-inspired fashion.

She heaved her own sigh and visibly deflated a little. “I’m sorry. I just DESPISE evenings like this. And I rang your agency on a whim and now I’m just HORRIBLY embarrassed and I’m taking it out on you. I’ve never done this before and I really wasn’t prepared for them to send someone so-” she gestured up and down at him despairingly.

“Oh,” said Martin quietly, his heart sinking. He checked himself from explaining that this was his first time too.

 Amanda’s brow wrinkled at his response. “So _handsome_. I wasn’t expecting them to send such a looker. No one’s going to believe... anyway. Tonight. **Urgh**. What was I _thinking_?” She thonked her forehead on the edge of the table, one hand rhythmically gripping and releasing a damp cardboard coaster. Her fringe millimetres away from a pool of condensation.

Martin blinked. _Handsome?_ Oh. _Right._ So that’s... Of course, that _was_ all part of the role play.

He cleared his throat and took her clammy hand in his, out of range of the coaster.

 “I’m not sure that ANYONE particularly enjoys these reunions. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, and perhaps a little about your concerns for this evening, so we can make sure that you have a... simply _wonderful_ time?” Was that a Herc or Douglas patented drawl he’d managed there? Whichever brand it was, it sufficed to get her to lift her head and meet his eyes.

 And gradually, she did tell him. She told him about being the girl no one really remembered at school. The slightly tubby, pallid girl who never spoke much in class but who was mildly notable for not just the mousey coloured hair, but the breathy, squeaky mouse voice, for which she had been briefly teased by the handsomest and most popular boys in class. Years ago now. And, she admitted, just harmless, possibly affectionate fun at the time. But something that had left her in tears for weeks back then.

She’d worked on the voice, thought Martin, with the confidence of one who’d had to master his own appropriate Captain’s voice. And clearly the glasses were an attempt to get past the mousey colouring... a bit like his Captain’s hat hid his own monstrous mop.

She was also an extremely successful barrister, but she’d almost neglected to mention that. It was the aloneness she was focused on. She didn’t want anyone to realise she was single. That she had been overlooked by the rest of the population exactly as she had been at school. To that end, she’d hired herself a fake boyfriend for the evening – someone who’d be charming, devoted, and worth showing off.

Martin wondered whether Monique had deliberately matched him up with someone whose lack of confidence rivalled his own, or whether this was the kind of low-stakes date everyone got on their first...job. Martin knew he’d be useless at projecting any kind of charm and confidence in a crowd. He just hoped Lachlan would be up to the task.

It was, of course, just as tedious as she had anticipated it would be. There were no Hollywood showdowns. There was no great moment where all Amanda’s archenemies suddenly got their comeuppance. Martin suspected Amanda had taken quiet, petty glee in the fact that the boys she had described as handsome at high school had mostly given to middle age spread and baldness while the most popular – and cruel - of the girls had similarly married (and some had also divorced) young, losing looks and careers in swift order. While Amanda had held onto the pain of those childhood taunts, there was no one there who could really have been described as an archenemy or even an enemy. Despite whatever expectations their youth and beauty had imbued them with years ago, most of them had gone on to have quiet and ordinary lives - with which they were relatively content. Many barely remembered Amanda and Martin suspected that was less painful than Amanda had expected. Amanda did, however, appear to enjoy showing off the handsome man on her arm and though they were not, in the end, required to perform or tell long, coupley stories (though Martin made a point of expounding on Amanda’s accomplishments when he got the chance) even Martin was not blind to the admiring glances shot their way and was ashamed to admit enjoying the attention.

Amanda, who had so obviously been dreading the evening, was high on the sensation of being in possession of something others wanted. Moreover, something she was allowed to have. By the time they made it back to her hotel, several sheets to the wind (in her case at least, Martin had been sticking responsibly to mineral water), she had become quite handsy and not at all shy in letting her desires be known.

 

Martin, who could understand her high school experiences a little too clearly, only hoped he could rise to the challenge.

 

Thankfully, it turned out that flattery, and being on the receiving end of so much admiration, really could get, um, one everywhere. For a man used to mockery and jibes about his appallingly pale skin, vile ginger hair and revoltingly scrawny frame, it was a heady and confusing turn to have these same traits reframed in terms of _creamy_ , _auburn_ , _lean_... to have someone caress him and _beg_ him to bed them. To throw themselves at him so wantonly.

 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to remember that HE was being paid to seduce HER; but thankfully she didn’t seem to notice. Amanda had already made short work of Martin’s shirt before he had come to his senses, but he managed to slow proceedings and take back charge of the situation.

“Slow,” he said to her softly, gazing straight into her eyes. He wrapped one arm around her waist and ran the other hand through her hair before carefully removing her glasses and kissing her again.

“Slow...” _Kiss_ “and then...” He began to undo the infernal jacket to her two-piece as she kicked off her heels with an impatient noise and ran her hands over his bared chest, “...if you’re very good...” Another kiss, the jacket slipped off her shoulders and he started on the buttons of her blouse... “and I do mean _very_ good...” Her breath hitched and her hands just rested on his chest as he removed the blouse and brought both hands around to cup her breasts in their bra... “then...” A nip of her lip as he unclipped the back of her bra and snaked a hand down to unhook her skirt... “and _only_ then...” A kiss to her throat as he slipped the bra off and tugged at her hips to encourage her to stand ... “will I consider...” A kiss planted between her breasts as he grasped the waistband of her skirt and knickers, sliding them down to leave her standing between his legs in nothing but her stockings. He looked up, “making love to you so thoroughly you can’t even SPELL high school.” She let out a squeak and he tugged on her arms so they both toppled onto the bed in a riot of limbs and giggles. Between them they managed to remove Martin’s pants and wrangle the rubber.

 

Rubbers.

 

Amanda spent the night showing Martin how very _not_ mouselike she could be.

 

Martin spent the night showing Amanda he was worth every penny of her money.

 

In the morning Amanda left an appropriately thick envelope on Martin’s bedside table to find while she was in the shower. Martin wrote her a lovely note with no contact details and left before she emerged.

 

Martin left the hotel with a big grin on his face, and it wasn’t until he got back home to dingy Parkside Terrace and his clapped-out van that he started to feel like a whore.


	5. Chapter 5

“Lachlan?”

Martin turned to the bright-eyed, dark-haired, dark-skinned businessman who’d just propped his briefcase on the chair beside him.

“Achmed! Lovely to see you again!”

“Yes, indeed.” The other man offered him a broad grin. “I hope you didn’t mind meeting here?” Achmed gestured to the coffee lounge in the centre of the airport arrivals lounge.

“Not at all,” Martin grinned back. “I’ve just been doing a little pl- ah, people watching.” Though he had done little more than watch the planes landing, he’d had the foresight to pick a seat far enough away from the windows that he wouldn’t give his obsession away, paranoid as that might be. This also meant he was hidden enough that he could avoid the eyes of anyone at the busy airport who might possibly recognise Captain Crieff. Unlikely as that was. This was Heathrow, not Fitton. And Captain Crieff was never this well-dressed. Even in uniform.

Martin cleared his throat. “So, what’s on the agenda for the afternoon? I’m all yours until Wednesday morning. Did you want to see the sights, or...?”

“Oh, God, no. I have no interest in playing tourist. I travel all the time. That’s why I’ve called you. Honestly, I just want the usual - some quiet domestic time; someone to chat to, rather than spending all my time at the hotel alone.

“Come on,” Ahmed beckoned. “The one thing that is good about this job is the company pays for some sinfully good hotels and the London ones are better than the Fitton ones. It’s just a lot more fun if I have someone to share them with.”

***

Martin looked absently around the decadent room. Clean, lush, and utterly impersonal. Still, he thought as he watched Achmed shrug out of his jacket and kick off his shoes with obvious relief, at least he was likely to have a good time with Achmed. He’d become a regular over the past 8 months or so; booking Martin whenever he was in town – which seemed to be fairly frequently.

 

“Beer?” Achmed was loosening his tie as he made his way to the suite’s modest, but expensively appointed, kitchenette.

Martin nodded his assent, a small part of him relaxing when the silk necktie was merely tossed unthinkingly over the chair where the discarded jacket lay. Already this was an improvement on the night before when Monique had booked him a new client. Another high flyer, the businesswoman had most definitely fallen into the “strictly business” category of clients. Martin had met her at her hotel bar and she had whisked him off to her room with barely a hello. Once in the room, she’d begun issuing orders to Martin, throwing completely any of his usual tricks for charming or seducing his clients. In no time at all she had him stripped and on the bed and waiting for her. To ensure his compliance, she’d used a couple of satiny scarves to tether his wrists to the bed – ignoring his protests and directing Martin with such authority that it never occurred to him that he could resist or prevent her from continuing. And once she had him tied up he really was stuck. At which point she'd produced a man’s tie from somewhere, blindfolding Martin in spite of his much more plaintive protests. His distress did not seem to bother her and she worked him perfunctorily, but with little care, in order to get him into an appropriate...state... so that she could, he swallowed uncomfortably at the memory, simply impale herself and ride him until her own completion.

When she was finished – she hadn’t seemed bothered that Martin hadn’t, though emotionally he’d been in no state to think he could - she'd lifted herself off and untied the blindfold. She'd retrieved the agreed sum from her handbag and tossed it on the bed next to Martin, then simply tugged one of the scarves to release his wrist before making her way to the bathroom with an abrupt “thank you, you can go now”. He'd heard the water start and the woman singing to herself as he carefully extricated himself from the remaining binding. He remembered being slightly shaky as he'd scooped up the money and pulled his discarded clothes back on.

It wasn’t unusual for clients to be strictly business, but that had been the first time he’d felt so used. Like a living sex toy without any of the innocent fun that the word “toy” implied. He’d slunk out of the room and trudged the few miles back to Parkside Terrace, hopeful the fresh air would blow away the feeling of filth in a way he’d suspected the knowing eyes of a taxi driver really wouldn’t.

 

Now, however, Martin thankfully clinked bottles with his host and took a long swallow of the cool drink, allowing it to wash away his memories of the night before as he slid onto the arm of the room’s leather sofa. Compartmentalising was key; that was yesterday, this was now. Martin caught Achmed’s gaze and lay one hand palm-up on his knee in invitation of affection as he asked his client to tell him all about his day.

***

It was, Martin thought, rather ridiculous how easy he found it to relax into these situations, provided he was given a chance to do so. _Lachlan_ didn’t have his family’s disappointed expectations weighing on him, he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet or about proving to people that he was good enough to be the captain. _Lachlan_ was whoever he was paid to be and that came with guaranteed belief, which made it easier for him to pull it off. And since Martin didn’t care about this job the same way that he cared about flying, there was a hell of a lot less pressure. Subsequently, he found it was quite simple to lay back in a stupidly bubbling spa with a relative stranger, downing beers and discussing the relative merits of different coffee brands without worrying that he was making a fool of himself or tangling himself up in embarrassment. The silence that eventually fell seemed quite natural and, since they were both already naked underneath the bubbles, it also seemed quite natural for Martin – _Lachlan_ – to lean forward seductively and press a warm kiss to waiting lips. Achmed’s thick lashes fluttered closed as he pulled Martin closer and they ran their hands up and down each other’s backs as their lower limbs tangled in the warm, frothing water.

Last night’s unpleasant encounter aside, Martin didn’t always get off with his clients – as long as _they_ got off that was the main thing, although most of them preferred the fiction that he was enjoying himself equally as much. But Achmed was one of his only regulars. He was kind, which wasn’t always the case with older clients. And while Martin wasn’t particularly attracted to the man, he did have certain...traits that made it easy for him to pretend, if he closed his eyes, that this was the man he _was_ attracted to.

As he slid a soapy hand down Achmed’s furry chest and past his age-thickened middle to encircle his full cock, he was unsurprised to find himself responding in kind and he pressed himself against the other man’s thigh, even as he began to stroke him.

Achmed bucked up into Martin’s hand, sliding both of his own up Martin’s warm back and gripping the russet curls that clung wetly to his scalp. For his part Martin added a twist to his strokes and slid his spare hand up to Achmed’s jaw, slipping a wet thumb into the other man’s gasping mouth. He found himself captivated by the contrast of his own pasty white hand against the other’s dark olive skin and tugged him forward for another kiss. As their lips met, Achmed inhaled suddenly, coming forcefully into the water around Marin’s hand and darting one of his own down between Martin’s legs to tug him unexpectedly to completion. It didn’t take much and they sat back against the edge of the enormous tub, gasping for air and laughing a bit.

“Christ, it’s hot in here,” chuckled Achmed, wiping away a mixture of sweat, condensation and soap bubbles from his forehead.

“Makes clean-up a lot easier, though,” said Martin.

“That’s true. But I’m not staying here all night. C’mon. I think it’s time to get out.” Achmed heaved himself over the side and grabbed a towel for himself, tossing a second one to Marin and laughing when it almost landed directly in the bath. Martin hit the lever that would let the water out and gangled his own way out of the tub. He tried not to mind as Achmed watched admiringly as he towelled off, conscious that hot water and steam were less than kind to easily flushed skin and frizzy hair.

Judging from the look on his client’s face, these were not turn-offs at all.

“I think it’s time for TV and room service,” said Achmed decisively. “Then I’ve got a bit of paperwork to catch up on.”

***

Two days later Martin was lazily stretching out his rather well-used muscles. Enjoying the last few moments on the luxury sheets as he listened to Achmed pottering about in the background. The irony of his surroundings did not escape him. As a pilot he spent a ridiculous amount of his non-flying time stuck in hotel rooms, but generally speaking they were quite a bit more downmarket than this one. Though, for an outfit like MJN, which couldn’t even afford to pay him, that seemed somehow... right. _This_ job, however, paid substantially better. Well of course it did. It actually PAID for a start and that was the whole point, he reminded himself. But an awful lot of the job was spending time in luxurious hotels .

Well, “hotels”. An awful lot of the time he ended up in the same hotel since he generally worked in Fitton where hotels of any kind were rather thin on the ground.

And he had to admit, while he luxuriated in these high thread count sheets, and marvelled at the rooms that were, even in Fitton’s ratty local motel, invariably twice the size of his dank attic room, it wasn’t always entirely worth the payoff to endure the knowing looks he got from some of the staff. He wasn’t renowned, by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly Hotel Fitton’s bartenders knew what was going on. And so did the concierge. They were friendly enough, but it was never far from Martin’s mind that this was just a means to an end. That really he was a captain and...well.... above all this.

 

_Except he wasn’t, was he? or he wouldn’t BE here._

 

Martin let out a sigh. Time to go. As always, it seemed _Lachlan_ was the only one who got any sleep – and only on these rare overnight jobs. Once Martin started thinking too hard about his life – and that generally started the moment he finished a “job”; or booked a new one – he would just keep fretting and there’d be no peace until. Well. Until he was back in Gerti and in the air.

And today, he remembered, they were flying. With that happy thought he was galvanised into action, throwing the covers off and his carefully discarded clothes back on. Achmed was in the bathroom. He grabbed the deliberately placed envelope from the bedside drawer and tucked it in his pocket, then grabbed his – _Lachlan’s_ \- holdall (a rather snazzy Louis Vuitton number that was entirely different to Martin’s shabby flight bag) in which were tucked, rather incongruously, an industrial size can of coffee beans and a jumbo Toblerone. He just about had time to get home to Fitton, grab a shower and change for the airfield.

***

 

Just about. By the time he’d got back to the house, the students were starting to emerge and he’d only just managed to hop in the bathroom for a lightning-fast shower between students. He’d transferred what he needed from his hold-all to his flight bag and leapt into the van to drive for the airfield with only minutes to spare.

Still. It had been a fun couple of days and he was in a good mood with treats to share with his colleagues. It wasn’t often he got to repay them for the sandwiches and cakes he’d been spared over the years, so today he was whistling as he made his way into the Portakabin.

“Gooood morning good morning good morning!”

No sign of Douglas yet, of course, but Arthur was already there, doing goodness knows what to the brochure stand. “Hiya Skip!” and Carolyn was just disappearing into her own office with a glower... so all was usual there.

“Do you want a coffee, Skip? Only Mum says...”

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” Martin produced the prized can of Arabica beans from his bag with a flourish, “I come bearing the finest of caffeinated delights!”

“Wow, Skip! Where’d you get that?”

“Yes,” said a voice behind him, “where _did_ sir get his hot little paws on such a sought after item? You wouldn’t be trying to establish your own... gift swapping service, would you?”

“Not at all, Douglas,” Martin whirled. “As it happens this was given to me by a, um, very satisfied client.” He couldn’t help the slight blush. “I just thought it might be nice to share it here. Rather than wasting it on the students at home.”

“You didn’t think of just savouring it yourself?”

“I. Well. No. It’s a really big can.” Martin gestured at Arthur who was grasping the can in question with two hands.

“I think it’s brilliant! Thanks, Skip!” 

 “Wait!” cried Douglas, almost distressed as Arthur turned towards the kitchen, “you can’t just do any old thing to those beans!”

 Arthur looked shocked and held the can out before him gingerly. “What do you mean, Douglas?”

 “Oh... give it here.” Douglas snatched the can from the steward and made his own way to the kitchenette. “I will make this first batch and then I’ll teach you, Arthur. Really, Martin, I don’t know what you were thinking entrusting these to him...”

Before Arthur could work out what Douglas was getting at and look too disheartened, Martin reached into his bag again and produced the Toblerone. “Never mind, Arthur, I’ve also got this, which I thought you might like...”

Arthur’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Oh, SKIP! BRILLIANT. Thanks! But what’s this for? I haven’t got you anything.”

“It’s not _for_ anything, Arthur. The, uh, the same client gave it to me. And, well. I knew you’d really, really like it.” He offered Arthur a small grin and was rewarded with an enormous hug in return. He patted the steward awkwardly on the shoulders before he was released in a flurry of excitement as Arthur flew into the office to show his mother.

 

“My goodness, Martin, that certainly was a generous client,” drawled Douglas, emerging cynically from the kitchen. “Anything we should know? You obviously went above and beyond the call; is there a happy announcement on its way?”

Though he knew Douglas was only joking, Martin felt the blush hit him like a tidal wave of fire. “N-no, no of course not! It’s just. He was just. He works for a multi-national coffee company. And I was helping him. Um, move. Coffee. So he gave me a tin as a sort of thank you.”

“And the Toblerone?”

“Oh. Well he mentioned that he flies a lot and he always ends up buying those special Toblerones but he doesn’t really like them and then he just sort of. Gave it to me.”

Apart from the moving it was all true. Martin had never felt like a bigger liar in his life as Douglas smirked at him and retreated to fiddle with the coffee again.

“Whatever you say, sir. I’d say you have a bit of an admirer. Sir certainly is looking rather _dashing_ with his new hairstyle...”

 His new...? Oh. Damn. He’d rushed out of the house too quickly to wash or slick back his hair this morning.

“I-I-I haven’t...”

“Indeed, sir.” Douglas handed him a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. “Whatever you say.” Martin huffed as his First Officer settled himself down on the cabin couch with his own cup, one sardonic eyebrow still poised for action.


	6. Chapter 6

_“Monique! Gorgeous, how are you?”_

_“I’m quite well thank you, Douglas. What are you after?”_

_“Can’t a man simply call an old friend for a chat?”_

_“He could. He can. He hasn’t, in fact, done so for several years. I’m hurt, Dougie, really hurt.”_

_“You, hurt by my inattention? I’m flattered. And yet, rumour has it you’re running quite the lucrative business these days...”_

_“Aah. And so we come to the_ crux _of the matter, sweetie. Would you, perchance, be calling me for business, rather than pleasure?”_

_“Well. I rather thought your business_ was _pleasure...”_

_“If your idea of pleasure is pleasant company, then certainly, my dear, that is precisely what my agency offers. Did you have... something in mind?”_

_“Do you know... I rather did...”_

 

***

Martin sauntered into the hotel bar and slid elegantly onto the stool nearest Gemma. “A glass of your finest mineral water, with a twist, if you don’t mind,” he said, grinning salaciously.

“Coming right up, ‘sir’,” Gemma rolled her eyes as she filled a glass. “This is the second week in a row; you making it a habit or something? Or do you just like the company?”

Martin laughed. Gemma knew exactly why he was here, having caught on during one of his earlier visits. She was one of the few hotel staffers who never gave him a hard time. Unlike the bar manager, Dave, who was glowering at him from where he was polishing glasses at the other end of the counter.

Martin relaxed, enjoying the soft piano music and warm lighting. He and Gemma fell into easy chatting as Martin waiting for his “date” to arrive.

***

Douglas wandered in to the quiet bar. A little later than he had planned and ever so slightly uncomfortable with his plans for the evening. Still. He’d be in the hands of a professional. No doubt they’d soothe his worries in no time. And it was nice not to be stuck at home in a cold, empty house after a long trip for once. He strode up to the barman and placed an order for a “glass of apple juice, straight up”. The barman offered him a half smile and made practised small talk that quickly established them both as locals.

“Are you staying in the hotel, sir?”

“Ah, yes. Indeed I am.” Douglas noted the barman’s slightly quizzical expression.

“Are you...meeting someone here, then?” His tone was suspicious.

“I am, actually.” Douglas’s pride demanded his defensiveness.

“I see, sir. It’s just that I think your ‘guest’ might already be here.”

As Douglas glanced around the otherwise empty bar, the barman cleared his throat. “Over there, talking to Gemma.”

Douglas leaned past the man to see a lithe silhouette disappearing around the corner, a shock of red hair catching the light.

***

Martin ducked around two more corners before retreating into the relative safety of a stairwell.

What. The. Hell?

He’d recognised that deep, dark voice the second it drawled its demand for apple juice, but it had taken him a second to twig that in a hotel bar this empty, it was no coincidence his first officer had appeared at the appointed meeting spot.

But if he’d rumbled Douglas, it was more than clear that Douglas had rumbled and tumbled him. Oh, he might not have seen Martin tonight – he was relatively certain he’d made his escape before Dave stuck his oar in. But obviously Douglas had somehow found out about his moonlighting and had booked him for a thorough mocking.

He swallowed the churning wave of nausea that washed through his stomach. His arms were tightly folded across his chest in a defensive hug and he gripped his own biceps hard enough to bruise. This wasn’t just teasing. Douglas held Martin’s whole career and personal life in his hands. No cheese tray or landing could repay him for his silence on this.

And now he’d have to tell Monique he’d missed his appointment.

He swallowed hard again and pulled out the mobile phone he used only for this job.

Monique answered on the first ring.

“Lachlan, shouldn’t you be sharing drinks about now? What’s happened?”

“Th-the client tonight. I can’t...I couldn’t...”

“What on earth’s wrong? Of all the clients we’ve had, Douglas is someone I can _personally_ vouch for-” Martin bit his lip at the confirmation Douglas was his client tonight, though he’d known it was coming. “-I’ve known him for years and... well, he’s a _pilot_ , Martin. I know you can’t talk about flying with your clients, but honestly, I’d have thought this one would be a doddle for you. Particularly given the special request.”

“Special...? What _exactly_ did he ask for?”

“He wanted a skinny redhead. Male. I must say, I was rather surprised. Douglas has always been more of a ladies’ man, but then in this business I’ve seen nearly everything.-”

Martin's mouth was drier than the Sahara. “I don’t think that was it, Monique. Douglas is... I mean... the thing is, I know Douglas. He’s...he’s my best... I mean my co-pilot. My first officer, actually. I think this was all intended to be a joke at my expense. At least, I sort of hope that’s all it was.”

The alternative, that Douglas intended to properly out him, was too terrifying to imagine.

“Your _first officer_?” Monique’s tone was gleeful. “I _see_.”

Wait.

What?

Martin had been expecting gruff professionalism, but Monique sounded more like the cat that got the cream.

And her tone was far too knowing.

“Martin. I don’t think this was a joke. Or at least, not in the way that you think. Douglas contacted me because we’re friends. Have been for years. He was awfully cagey about making this booking. And I really don’t think he knows that you work for me.”

“Then what? Why? _Oh my God_...” 

Martin had a terrible flashback to Clive telling him what had, at the time, seemed a hilarious story. A buck’s night prank booking. Clive, as it turned out, looked a lot like the groom whose imminent wedding they were celebrating; the revellers had hired him to pose for certain photos. Light-hearted fun.

Unless you were the one being pranked.

“That’s...that’s even worse! So he was going to pay some lookalike to... what? And take pictures or something? And then what? My God. That’s cruel even for Douglas-”

Monique interrupted his theorising firmly. “Martin, what on earth? I don’t think he was playing a joke. He was very specific in what he was looking for. He knows better than to try to play any games with me or my staff. So. What _possible_ other reason do you think he could have had for paying to spend the night with your doppelganger? Think now, Martin. Most people could figure this one out without the experience, but you’ve been doing this gig long enough now to know when people hire you to _fulfil their fantasies_.”

“But that can’t... I’m not... He doesn’t...”

 “And yet he has.”

 Martin sank to the floor beneath the stairs, quietly going to pieces as he clutched the phone.

“Look, Martin, it’s up to you if you go and talk to him now, or if you wait until later. If you need some time, I can call Douglas and let him know his date couldn’t make it. I won’t charge you for this evening but...”

“I know. I’ll need to make it up to you.”

“So what do you want me to do?

“I think I need... God, I can’t talk to him now. Not here. Not like this.”

“All right. I’ll call him now. You head on home.”

***

Martin spent a sleepless night trying to figure out how to broach this subject with his co-pilot without losing everything. Whatever Monique might believe, Martin had known Douglas too long not to recognise his hallmark sneaking. Somehow he’d found out Martin’s secret. The only question was what the man with no less than seven ulterior motives at any one time had planned for him.

***

Douglas spent a morose drive home trying to figure out when he’d become distasteful even to those who were _paid_ to desire him. Monique had been very apologetic and soothing over the phone as she explained that her boy had been taken down with nasty case of food poisoning, but what he didn’t mention when she rang was that he’d seen the chap in question run from the bar – presumably directly after seeing Douglas.

He let himself in to his dark house and headed straight to the bathroom. Under the harsh lighting he stared at his reflection and admitted to himself that if he were a bright young thing, maybe he’d have walked out, too. God knows his ex-wives were never short of explanations as to why they’d moved on. He ran a hand through blessedly thick, but depressingly greying hair. Noted the full matching sets of luggage under his eyes, and scowled at the way his jowls so cosily snuggled against the down-turned lines around his mouth.

He stopped short of meeting his own gaze. He knew what he’d see in his own eyes.

What had he been thinking?


	7. Chapter 7

Martin dragged himself out of bed the next morning with a deepening sense of foreboding. He slunk into the shower and then armed himself for the day. Hair combed neatly back. Uniform pressed to within an inch of its life. Shoes freshly polished. Hat brushed and gleaming. He stared dejectedly into the mirror and wished he saw a captain. He was pale after another night with no sleep. And he could see the fear and resignation in every line of himself.

He didn’t know whether Douglas had seen him at the hotel last night. But he’d know he hadn’t shown up for their appointment.

No doubt this would be more fuel for the taunting fire.

  
***

Ordinarily Douglas would be late for work, but today, naturally, he was on time. As Martin clomped up the steps to the Portakabin, for all the world like he was facing his execution, he’d been counting on having at least an hour to compose himself.  

Douglas was slumped on the cabin’s tiny, scuffed sofa. He looked... rumpled. When he looked up as Martin entered, something strange crossed his face that Martin didn’t have a chance to analyse before– 

“Good morning, drivers! And what a joy it is to see you have both managed to make it in early today because... good lord, what is wrong with the pair of you? No. Wait. Don’t tell me. All I need to hear is that you can adjust the flight plan to leave in half an hour, to suit the whimsy of our delightfully rich passenger who will be here any moment. We need to be in Berlin as soon as possible, so chop-chop!” 

“Wait! Carolyn – I need to–” 

“I’ve already done it, _sir._ ” Douglas’s drawl was listless as he waved his clipboard at Martin. “I refiled the plan when I got in and heard Arthur babbling about the change. We just need to do the walk-round and we’re ready to go. I imagine _you_ can handle that?” He pushed himself off the couch, shoving the clipboard into Martin’s hands and making his way to Gertie. 

Martin was left gaping, still holding his overnight bag and hat in the other hand.  

“Martin! Unless you’ve developed the gift of telekinesis I believe you’ll be needed IN the plane?” Carolyn was standing at the door to her office looking decidedly put out.  

“Y-yes. Of course. Sorry, Carolyn. I’ll just...” he gestured blindly at the doorway before actually making his way through it and dumping his possessions onboard Gertie before embarking on the walk-round.

 

He was met in the flight deck with a sort of haggard silence. He instructed Douglas to handle the take-off and this was met with neither a quip nor a skerrick of sarcasm. 

The knot in Martin’s stomach grew ever tighter. 

In an unprofessional display that would surely cause Carolyn to have Words later, neither Martin nor Douglas greeted their passenger, leaving Arthur and Carolyn to welcome him on board and settle him in. There were no word games on this flight. Douglas kept his cabin addresses polite and perfunctory and informed Martin in no uncertain terms that what he required today was peace and quiet. 

Arthur’s chirpy presence was tolerated long enough for the appallingly modified coffee to be passed around before Douglas sent him away with a shocking abruptness that made Martin wince.

Gradually, it occurred to Martin that they weren’t going to have this out at all. 

Douglas was just going to cut him out altogether. There was to be no teasing. This wasn’t about getting one up on Martin. The other man had simply been testing a hypothesis and, although Martin hadn’t shown up for the "date", he’d clearly confirmed Douglas’s worst suspicions.

 

By the time they landed – “Good Christ, Martin, did the tarmac _mortally_ offend you?” – Martin was a tightly wound, trembling ball of tension. And Douglas didn’t seem much better.

 

They’d spent the last half of the flight communicating in single syllable words – which would have made for a good game in any other circumstance.

Then they’d been stuck at the airport for a truly stupid number of hours just in case the passenger had wanted to return to Fitton again that day.

He hadn’t.

 

Of course they were sharing a room.

Douglas stepped in only long enough to drop his things before disappearing in need of “air”.

God only knew what had happened to Carolyn and Arthur. The steward had been avoiding both of them ever since Douglas had snapped at him, and Carolyn was, if not oblivious, still unwilling to get involved.

Martin locked himself in their room’s bathroom to succumb to his impending panic attack in peace. Everything he’d done, all so he could keep flying. So he could stay with MJN Air. So he could keep spending his days next to...Douglas. And of course, of _course_ that was what was going to end it all.

Even if Douglas didn’t tell Carolyn, or it turned out she didn’t, for some reason, mind that her captain moonlit as a rent-boy, things were already shattered. 

_God._

The look on Douglas’s face this morning.

He could identify it now.

It was the same one he saw reflected in the mirror.

_Disgust._

 

Martin gasped the desperate lungfuls of air of a drowning man. Because he was. Drowning. Douglas might as well have punched him, so hard – and close to home – did that look hit. He heard the door to their room close and quickly turned on the shower taps to cover his gasping and... to wash away the teary evidence of his distress. He stripped and stepped under the stream. The shower actually helped to calm him a bit.

But eventually he had to emerge.

And of course he hadn’t gone in there with intent to shower, so when he came out it was in nothing but a towel, his uniform bundled protectively in front of him.

Douglas was reclined on his bed, his laptop propped up on his knees. He looked up as Martin came back in and his lip curled in a dismissive sneer.

That was it. Martin grabbed his sleep clothes from his bag on the second bed and awkwardly dressed himself behind the shield of the open wardrobe door. Thus armoured, he turned back to Douglas.

“I’m sorry.”

Douglas started. “What?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s just... the van broke down and I had to get it towed and then I couldn’t pay the rent or buy food... _God_ , food was first out the window... and then... well. I’d met Clive and then... Well, I’m _good_ at it, Douglas, and...” He trailed off when he recognised the expression on Douglas’s face as utter bewilderment.

“Martin? What are you on about?”

“L-last night. I was... and you were...?”

 “Last night?”

 “You know, Douglas. God. Are you going to make me _say_ it? Fine. At the bar. In Fitton. At Hotel Fitton.”

A sharp intake of breath.

 “Wait, Martin.”

There was a rattle of keyboard keys as Douglas began typing.

 “What are you...?”

“No, really, Martin. Wait just a moment. I think there’s been... _Oh_. 

“Oh, I say.

“Oh, _Martin_.”

Douglas flipped the laptop around to show Martin what he’d been looking up. Martin’s – or, rather Lachlan’s – agency profile page.

Martin flushed a bit but remained confused.

“You know,” said Douglas casually, “I’ve never looked at this site before.”

_What?_

_But then..._

“But you know Monique?”

“Yes, I do. Known her for years. Met her at Air England, in fact.”

Right.

“So I didn’t need to look at her site. I know what she does and I had her number. I just... well. I rang her.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I _rang_ her on the off-chance that she could, um, cater to my tastes. As it were.”

“ _You_ rang for an escort?”

“Yes. Obviously. Clearly you already know that, Martin. Are you really going to try to take the moral high ground?”

“Ye-no. Wait. Moral high ground?” Martin ran a hand over his face. “I just. Douglas? I just don’t understand. Why would _you_ need an escort?”

“Well,” Douglas looked distinctly uncomfortable now. “You know how it is...”

Martin eyed him shrewdly. “I do, actually. You’d be surprised what I’ve learned about people. However, of the two of us, I am not sure why you’re the one who looks so caught out. I mean, God....surely it’s occurred to you that you could have me fired for this?” Martin was shaking with nausea.

Douglas barked a laugh that was utterly devoid of amusement. “Martin.” His turn to scrub at his own face. He looked away and stared determinedly at the grimy window. “I don’t doubt for a moment that Monique told you precisely what I asked for when I rang. And I know that you must have spoken to her since I know that my ‘date’ last night scarpered as soon as he clapped eyes on me. Therefore, you know that I asked for someone who was the spitting image of my esteemed captain.” This last was sneered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Now. I spent a good proportion of last night assuming that I couldn’t even pay your lookalike to sleep with me. As it turns out, I have confirmed that not only are _you personally_ sickened at the thought of my advances, but you think so little of me as to assume I would use this –” he waved an arm at Martin “– to what? Ruin the career I know you love? Good lord, Martin. I know we bicker and tease, and I know you don’t think much of me, but that?” He shook his head. “I mean... from your stuttering just now, I assume this was just a means to an end. I assume this is something you felt you needed to do in order to keep flying?”

Martin nodded quietly.

“And you thought I’d try to take that away from you?”

That was really the least of what Martin had thought. Douglas turned to look at the young man hunched on the sagging single bed.

“That wasn’t all, was it? What did _you_ think happened last night? In fact... no. Why don’t you tell me everything. I rather feel as though I’ve give enough away for now.” He folded his arms and sat back against the headboard again; jaw set, staring at Martin.

 

Well that was just typical, wasn’t it? That was Martin’s life laid bare with that little profile shot, and yet Douglas was the one taking offence. Still.

Martin sighed, and began to explain how he’d got into the business.

 

“And it was all fine, actually. I mean, in the end. I’m earning, not great money, but I’ve got the van fixed up properly now, and I’m ahead on rent. Last night, all I knew was I was meeting a businessman who’d asked for a young, male redhead. That happens sometimes, I’ve got a couple of regulars who... well. So I didn’t think anything of it. And then when I was talking to Gemma I heard your voice. At first I just thought it was a coincidence. But then I heard Dave. Well. He doesn’t like me. My kind. Much.”

He cleared his throat as the familiar self loathing began to clog it. “Understandable, really. Dragging down the tone of his establishment and all...” Martin's voice petered out. “Anyway. Then when I realised why you were there I...I panicked. And I... I ran. I thought you were just playing a prank on me. And that... well, that was bad enough but I could... I could almost _see_ you doing that. But when I rang Monique she said...she said you didn’t know that I worked for her. And I wasn’t sure if she was wrong and you’d somehow heard, or if it was just some horrible coincidence that you’d decided to maybe... well. Hire someone who looked like me and take... maybe compromising pictures. For another kind of joke. And then. Well, I didn’t know if you’d seen me last night and then this morning and today and...” his words ran together before they ran out and he buried his hand in his hair; lost and entirely unable to meet Douglas’s eyes.

“You...you really thought me capable of **that**?”Douglas looked aghast. “I’m not sure whether to be angry or disgusted.”

Martin flinched.

“And not by your job. I don’t know whether I am more horrified that you think so little of me. Or that you think so little of yourself. That you really believe that I could do something like that to you.” Douglas was pale again, but there were two spots of anger on his cheeks. “I can’t even begin to process the question of your part-time career. Frankly, Martin, I don’t think I can even bear to be in the same room as you right now.”

Douglas retrieved his jacket from the end of his bed and shoved his feet roughly back into his shoes before shuffling out the door to the depressing corridor beyond. He didn’t spare a glance for the man still slumped with his head hanging between his knees.

***

Douglas did not return to the room that night. Martin switched off the accusing laptop about half an hour after he left and wasted a good couple of hours waiting for him to return, before forcing himself to get some sleep. He woke in the early hours and noted the other bed had still not been slept in.

He didn’t like to think what that might mean.


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t until dawn that Douglas let himself into the rather manky pool area of the hotel. Having spent the night wandering the streets – in anger first, then cycling through embarrassment, anger, shame, grief and anger again – he’d passed the last few hours in deep thought and lowered himself gingerly onto the creaky and cracked plastic sun lounger.

“Oh! Hello Douglas! Gosh. What are you doing here?”

“Good God, Arthur!” Douglas clutched one hand to his chest as Arthur bounced beamingly over from the far side of the pool.

“What on earth...?”

“Isn’t this _brilliant_? I couldn’t see it before, but now the sun’s out it’s all sort of...glowy.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow dubiously at the murky pool, which, to give Arthur credit, _was_ a rather frighteningly intense shade of green. It looked as if it might be entirely possible to walk across the surface, it was so thick with algae. Should one want to risk such a thing in this less-than-balmy clime. He’d barely noticed the temperature when he’d been trudging the streets, but somehow it was more noticeable now the sun was coming up. Certainly now he had stopped moving.

“Brilliant, Arthur? That’s a stretch, even for you.” He looked him up and down. “Have you been out here all night? You look a bit... dishevelled.”

“Ah. Well. Yes. A bit.”

“What for?”

“Well. After dinner, Mum wanted to make a phone call. To Herc. So she suggested I might want to go for a walk. A long one. So I did. Only I sort of got a bit turned around and then I realised I didn’t actually have my room card and they locked the entrance to the hotel so I couldn’t get back in so I just sort of stayed out here on one of the sun loungers. It was a bit like camping, really. Only without a tent. Or a sleeping bag.”

“I see,” said Douglas, who didn’t. The security at this downmarket hotel didn’t seem quite THAT strict and it seemed unlikely they’d have locked the main entrance, but God knows which door Arthur had been trying.

“But you’re up awfully early, Douglas,”said Arthur, “did you go for a walk as well?”

Douglas sighed. “Yes, Arthur. I did actually.”

“Oh, but does that mean - where’s Skip? You two aren’t still fighting, are you? Only I’m sure Skip doesn’t know what he did wrong because he didn’t see how sad you were yesterday and he looked _really_ upset. Can’t you just...” Arthur’s voice petered out at the expression on Douglas’s face. “Oh. Wow. Has he done something really bad?” His brow furrowed deeply as he clearly tried to think of what Martin could have done to anger or, no; _wound_ , Douglas so deeply.

 

Clearly he drew a blank.

 

Douglas didn’t blame him.

 

Because realistically? As hurt as he was by Martin’s theories? There was only one person who could have given him cause for such fears. And that was where Douglas got stuck at shame and anger – at himself.

It was with no small amount of bitter irony he acknowledged to himself that up until last night’s revelations he had clearly been successful in keeping his growing affections secret; if Martin had even an inkling of Douglas’s feelings he would never have believed him capable of the sort of cruelty he had described - certainly he'd never have worried for his job security.

Douglas swallowed. And of course the elephant in the room, so to speak, was that this boy... _man_... whom he professed (in the privacy of his own head if nowhere else) to... _care for_... had at some point fallen on hard enough times that he’d actually begun whoring himself out. And Douglas had never even noticed. In fact, to his own disgust, what he _had_ noticed were the subtle changes – the slight improvements to Martin’s hair and, God help him, his skin. His slightly healthier appearance. A few more regular flashes of rather appealing cocky confidence. All of which had added up to, _dear God_ , Douglas calling an escort agency himself, to deal with his unrequited passions.

He half-hid his choked sob/laugh behind a hand that he rasped over his stubble. He was suddenly keenly aware that he’d been silent too long while Arthur watched him have an epiphany of hypocritical proportions.

He chanced a quick look at his poolside companion, who appeared justifiably alarmed at the sight of MJN Air’s ordinarily unflappable First Officer on the verge of some kind of breakdown. The mere thought was enough to snap him out of it, at least on the surface.

“Arthur? After a night on the town – or at least in the pool area – I think what this morning calls for is a good breakfast. Now if there’s one thing the Germans can be counted on for, it’s filling food. What say we head back inside for a warm up and maybe a couple of hours’ kip, then we meet down here for a PROPER breakfast?”

Arthur didn’t look quite as reassured as he might, but he cheered up a little when Douglas produced his door card with a flourish and they managed, with a decent helping of Douglas’s Sky God charm and linguistic talent, to procure a replacement for Arthur at the front desk.

Douglas managed to stroll confidently with Arthur down the hall to the door of Carolyn’s room, but having deposited him to the soundtrack of “Arthur! Where on EARTH have you been?” it was a more tentative tread that took him to the furthest end of the corridor.

***

He slid the card cautiously into the reader, trying to ease the door open quietly. He needn’t have bothered. Martin was sitting in one of the two uncomfortable chairs before the window; curtains flung open. He was hunched up as small as possible, knees up to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. 

All Douglas could see was a skinny silhouette.

Until he closed the door and Martin turned, eyes wide, wet and deeply shadowed. A streak of blood marring his lower, clearly well-chewed lip.

 

God. He looked fragile.

 

Frightened.

 

Alone.

 

Something in Douglas’s chest quivered.

 

“You came back, then.” Flat voice. At odds with the figure before him.

“I did.” Douglas’s voice was rough by comparison. “I found Arthur out by the swamp.”

“ _The swamp?_ ” Martin mouthed, clearly confused.

“Told him we’d all meet up for breakfast.”

“Right. So that’s... right.” Martin blinked as if recalibrating. “So we’re just...?”

Douglas raised an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” Martin sighed, defeated. “I take it we’re not breakfasting immediately? I might catch another couple of hours’ sleep.” He uncoiled and moved to stand.

“Of course, _sir_ ,” Douglas gestured magnanimously at Martin’s side of the room, smirking. “Go ahead; I rather imagine _you’ll_ be much more _comfortable_ in a _bed_.”

Martin sucked in a sharp breath, then nodded tightly as he passed Douglas. “Right. Of course.” He looked away and tucked himself back under the covers, facing the wall.

In turn, Douglas made his way over to his own bed and retrieved his sleepwear from the case beside it, then headed gingerly into the bathroom for a quick shower before turning in.

 

That really hadn’t been how he’d intended that to go, he mused as he turned on the shower. He’d _intended_ to apologise as soon as he got in the room. He’d _intended_ to beg Martin’s forgiveness. To explain himself. But dammit. He never could help rising to a challenge and Martin’s tone when he came in was nothing if not a challenge. Not that he blamed him.

Still, at least they weren’t fighting, he decided, lathering up the paltry complimentary shower soap. He’d managed to get back to his usual languid demeanour at least... even if Martin was a bit confused. Although he’d seemed awfully... Oh.

 

_OH._

 

Surely he hadn’t? Douglas stood motionless under the spray, letting the tiny soap melt away as he parsed his last throwaway line from Martin’s perspective. Of course. Now he knew... what he knew... that comment about beds could well have sounded like a dig.

 

“Fuck.” Douglas winced as he clonked his head deliberately against the shower wall before scrambling to turn off the shower taps and wrap a towel hastily around himself, practically throwing himself out of the bathroom.

“Martin! Martin, I–” he dashed over to Martin’s side of the room, hand outstretched to shake his shoulder, but Martin was already twisting over in a tangle of sheets; outrage evident on his face, his gaze icy.

He looked Douglas up and down. “Well, at least you washed, but couldn’t you even be bothered to dry off? Goodness, you were keen. I am sure you know my rates – Monique must have filled you in when you booked. I’m sorry, Douglas, I don’t do freebies. You’ll need to rebook through Monique. And I don’t do it while I’m on a job for MJN; _terribly_ unprofessional.” He hissed the last statement as he narrowed his eyes in a glare at Douglas’s still-outstretched hand.

Stung, Douglas recoiled, watching as Martin flung himself back into position: a wall-facing lump huddled beneath the covers. Living proof that statues could seethe.

Douglas stood there, dripping, one hand still holding the towel up around his waist. For once at a loss for words.

 

Eventually he made it back into the bathroom, scrubbing himself viciously with the towel and pulling on his T-shirt and boxers. Knowing there was no way he would sleep now.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a good job that the flight home would only be short because, in the end, neither man slept. Martin remained rigidly furious under his covers until the appointed breakfast hour arrived. Douglas spent the hours similarly motionless sitting against his headboard, staring at Martin’s back.

Martin was the first to move, throwing his covers back and snatching his change of clothes from his case before slamming his way stiffly into the bathroom. He didn’t spare a single glance for Douglas.

When he emerged twenty minutes later, he seemed calmer. He strode out, straightening his cuffs, already mostly dressed for their day’s flight. His hair was combed perfectly into position but as he, finally, looked up at the other man in the room and casually, politely, offered him next use of the facilities, Douglas realised with a sickening jolt that this wasn’t Captain Martin Crieff he was looking at. Not his nervous co-worker, his best friend, or even the angry and hurt young man from early this morning. Nor was this the slightly sparkier Martin he’d been admiring ever more steadily these past few months. Looking at that dead gaze, it certainly wasn’t his alter ego, “Lachlan”, or whatever he called himself while working for Monique.

No. This... this empty-eyed mask was new. God, he hoped it was a mask. Whoever this Martin was, Douglas wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t prefer the angry version.

Nevertheless.

He nodded a reply and heaved himself up to get changed for the second time in as many hours.

 

***

When they finally made it down to the lobby, Carolyn was already pacing impatiently while Arthur was practically vibrating. His cheerful grin, which had cracked across his face when he saw MJN’s finest emerge from the lift together shrivelled up almost as quickly when he took in the atmosphere surrounding them.

From somewhere, Douglas summoned the requisite jollity to get the small group outside and into the nearest decent looking café for the proper breakfast he had promised Arthur so recklessly in the wee hours. Carolyn was quick to remind them all that this being Douglas’s idea it was not a meal covered by MJN, which would only have sprung for toast at the hotel. Nevertheless, she was _similarly_ quick to order the most impressive breakfast option on the menu. Douglas noted that Arthur was rather subdued in his ordering of pancakes and soon realised that both he and Martin were under heavy scrutiny. Well, as heavy as Arthur’s scrutiny ever got.

When Martin placed an order for dry toast – and that only under sufferance – Arthur could hold back no longer.

“Skip...is everything all right? Only...you don’t look right. It’s not food poisoning, is it? It's just...it can’t have been anything I cooked because we only had a short flight yesterday. Was it my coffee? Because I swear I can make it better today, if you’ll let me bring you any coffee on the flight home. I brought some of those special beans and everything.”

Was it Douglas’s imagination or did Martin’s eye twitch just a little when Arthur mentioned the coffee beans?

“No, everything’s fine, Arthur. It wasn’t the c-coffee. There’s nothing to worry about.”

If not for that stumble, Martin would have sounded impressively impassive. Douglas suddenly remembered Martin blushing when they’d discussed the grateful client who’d gifted him with the beans and realised that his jokes at the time must have hit a little close to home. It hadn’t been one of Martin’s _van_ clients at all.

He scratched an eyebrow embarrassedly. Was there no end to his apparent foot-in-mouth?

“It pains me to say this,” Carolyn interrupted his new round of self flagellation and slapped a menu against the table, “but Arthur’s quite right. You both look like wet weekends.” The look in her eye said they both looked a damn sight worse than that. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter if you’re at each other’s throats or in each other’s pockets, as long as you can fly the plane. God knows it’s been a lot quieter and more professional since _this_ –” she flapped a hand between them, “– happened; whatever it is. However, I can’t say I like the atmosphere terribly much and,” she narrowed her eyes, “I am certain we can’t afford for either of you to take out your frustrations on Gertie with any more landings like we had yesterday.”

Douglas chanced a look at Martin at this. Ordinarily this last would have had him either stuttering and defensive or cowed and slumped. That Martin was continuing to stare calmly and empty-eyed at Carolyn was faintly horrifying.

He wasn’t sure if Martin even caught the sharp look of concern Carolyn shot him as she continued. “I suggest you sort this out immediately, if not sooner, once we’ve had breakfast.”

 

The rest of their meal passed in almost-silence. The food arrived and was pronounced brilliant in rather lacklustre fashion by Arthur, who nevertheless managed to put away a truly impressive stack of pancakes and bacon. It was easy to see where he got his appetite from as Douglas stared in amazement, watching Carolyn put away a frankly terrifying plateful of food. From the corner of his eye he could see Martin nibbling on his toast, and admitted to himself that he was really only moving his own eggs around on the plate. It occurred to him that at least one of them needed to have eaten since, judging from Martin’s appearance, neither of them had slept; and eventually he choked most of his meal down.

 

With the bill paid, they set off back to the hotel, Carolyn quickly marching on ahead with Arthur and reminding her two pilots that they had an hour to "sort themselves out" before they needed to get back to the airport. It was clear she intended them to, if not have this out on the street, then at least for them to go somewhere other than the hotel to clear the air.

 

Martin had barely spoken since reassuring Arthur about the coffee. So it was a surprise when he was the one to speak.

“What was your plan, when you rang Monique? You said you didn’t know I worked there. So what, exactly, were you thinking?”

They were just wandering down the street at this point, no aim in sight.

Douglas cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I _was_ thinking, exactly. I just...” he let out a breath. “I wanted to scratch an itch, I suppose?”

Martin let out a sort of huffing not-laugh. “And you, the great Sky God with his hundreds of stewardesses, couldn’t just have gone out and romanced a real person?”

Douglas frowned. “A _real_...? Martin...I...I thought we covered this last night. It was... it was quite a **_specific_** itch. Anyway... I just... I suppose I just thought it would be a bit of innocent fun. Well maybe not that innocent,” he chanced a half-grin, “but fun, anyway. I had no idea... well, how could I?”

“'Fun'?” That awful not-laugh again. “Did you think about the escort at all, Douglas? Or were you, as usual, just making sure that something wonderful was going to happen for Douglas?”

He could practically hear the air quotes around that last sneer.

“Martin–”

“Because I saw... I _SAW_ your face, Douglas. Yesterday. And this morning with your little quip? God. I disgust you, don’t I? _We_ disgust you. Escorts. _Prostitutes_.” His voice dropped as he looked down at himself. “Filthy whores.”

They’d both stopped on the footpath near an empty park and Martin turned to look at Douglas now. Had he really thought that dead-eyed stare earlier was worse than anything? Because no. This. This was worse. This was that masked layer stripped off. Douglas could see this was raw. Pain. And...

 

_Self loathing._

 

“I assure you, Douglas, nothing you are thinking about me now is anything I haven’t thought about myself.” That noise again. “I don’t think you could think as badly of me as I do of myself. Have done. Every day.”

“Martin–” he tried again.

“But that’s the price, isn’t it? And I knew that going in. And I was prepared to pay it. And I even knew _this_ was a risk,” he gestured between them. “Well, not this exactly, but I knew there was always a risk someone would find out and it would all go horribly wrong. And I _still_ did it. It was worth it, really. In the end. Or...I thought it–”

“Martin!" He finally managed to break that awful monologue. "Look. I-I lied. All right? Or... that is... I wasn’t entirely honest. When I said ‘scratch an itch’... the thing is... Martin... oh for God’s sake. I’m in _love_ with you, all right? So, no. I didn’t, for one _fleeting_ moment, think about the escort. I admit it. I was thinking entirely about myself and how maybe, just maybe, if I could somehow,” he cringed, “act out at least part of my... fantasies, then maybe the rest would go away and I wouldn’t jeopardise our friendship.

“So... yes, I am selfish. I am, presumably, like all the other clients I imagine you were alluding to: just a sad, lonely old man looking for a good time. Pathetic and desperate and slightly delusional. If I thought anything it was that whoever Monique sent would at least get paid well for their time and would hopefully enjoy themselves.”

 

Martin was just staring at him blankly.

 

Douglas prepared to backpedal.

 

“They probably would have done.”

“What?”

“I mean, if you’d got someone else. Not me. If Monique had sent someone else and they’d stayed and you’d had your night together. They probably _would_ have enjoyed themselves.”

 

Meaning Martin wouldn’t. Was that what he was saying? Douglas swallowed and stepped back to lean against a conveniently placed concrete pillar.

 

“The thing is, it’s not always... God, do you even want to hear about this? Oh, what does it matter? You already know most of it anyway. Look. It’s not as if it’s always bad. I mean, most of the clients are perfectly nice–”

Part of Douglas’s mind snagged on “most”, worrying for the “some” who obviously weren’t; but the rest was still having trouble imagining Martin in this scenario, not just because this was the same man who couldn’t even play-act a convincing airline captain, despite the fact that he WAS an airline captain; or because this was a man who couldn’t even speak to a potential date without tangling himself up in his own sentences - but because this was _Martin_ and yes. Martin had been right on one level, even if his reasons were off. Douglas DIDN’T like the idea that _this_ man was doing _that_ sort of work. Never mind what sort of hypocrite that made _him_.

“–but it’s not really about that. Because it’s not real. Any of it. So, you pretend to be someone else for an evening, but in the end, it is _your body_ they’ve paid for and no matter how... _enjoyable_ it is... there’s no getting around that fact. In the moment, sometimes I even feel pretty good. God, Douglas, who knew I could actually pull off confident and suave? Yes. _Me!_ But... afterwards... usually when I get home, that’s when I feel worst.”

“Then why...?” Douglas ventured.

“Because, up until now, I had debts. I told you the van was off the road. Well, this is the first time in my life I’ve managed to be out of debt and ahead on anything. And the van business took a bit of a hit when I was saving for the major repairs. It’s only, well, _now_ really that I’ve been able to consider giving it up and... going back...”

Going back to poverty was what he meant, Douglas realised. Because yes, he’d obviously saved and he’d got himself out of debt for now, but Carolyn still wasn’t paying him, which meant that the van business would have to cover food, rent and bills again. And unlike Martin’s new career, that wasn’t quite as flexible in terms of hours.

Douglas wanted nothing more than to fold Martin into a hug, but one look at the other man’s face told him that wouldn’t be welcome.

“Martin, about this morning... I didn’t mean...”

“I know. I mean, I guessed. I don’t know what the leaping out of the shower was all about, but...”

“I just wanted to apologise. In fact, I should have apologised the moment I returned this morning. No. Scratch that. I shouldn’t have blown up at you last night in the first place. I’m sorry, Martin. This is a huge thing you’ve been keeping to yourself and I reacted...well...”

“I’m sorry, too. About the... the hotel. And my...misconceptions. I just panicked. I didn’t know you’d seen me and I was just... well, you know what I thought. Anyway. I’m sorry I upset you.”

 _Upset?_ Was he being wilfully obtuse or deliberately avoiding the question of Douglas’s declaration to spare his feelings?

_Oh, stupid. Of course he was._

“Well. No harm done,” Douglas straightened up. “I’m a pretty sturdy warhorse, as it goes. Takes a bit more than rejection from a call boy to get me down for long.” He smiled encouragingly at Martin who looked... smaller now, somehow. In a way he hadn’t when he was baring his soul a moment ago.

“Come along, Captain,” he said soothingly, “it looks as if we’ve got about ten minutes to get back to the hotel and check out.”


	10. Chapter 10

The flight home was nearly as quiet as the flight out, but the atmosphere was pensive rather than taut, the few phrases uttered were spoken softly rather than snapped. Arthur curtailed his bounciness, but untensed as soon as he realised the two pilots were speaking once more. Even Carolyn had nodded approvingly as they’d clambered aboard Gertie, satisfied that the worst of the storm had passed and her plane would survive the trip home.

 

Afterwards Martin stayed back at the airfield under the pretext of completing the paperwork and managed to hold it together until everyone had left before caving in on himself and sending a text message to Clive. His mobile rang immediately.

“Martin? What’s wrong? You never call from this phone. Are you all right? Are you on a job?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, Clive. Well, I’m not fine. But I’m not on a job. It’s just... it’s Douglas. He knows.”

“Aaah.”

“Monique already told you.”

“Not exactly. Okay she did, but no details. Mostly she just sort of... told me to expect a call from you?”

“Oh, right.”

_So everyone expects me to be a basket case after all. So much for that confidence schtick._

“No, not like that. But she knows we’re friends. She just gave me a heads-up. Look, where are you? Do you want me to come over? Or you could come to mine? Or we could go to a pub? I haven’t got any work on tonight and Lucy’s with her mum...”

Martin rubbed one hand over his eyes. It didn’t help.

“Maybe...” He thought about his dank attic and shivered. Thought about Clive’s swish pad and felt a bit sick. “Could we meet at a pub?”

“Sure thing.”

Clive named one that was midway between the airfield and his own home. Martin took a couple of minutes to change in the Portakabin, into the barely worn but crumpled casual clothes he’d taken to Germany, then locked up the office and headed out to his van.

***

The pub was warmly lit and cosy, a soothing balm to Martin’s addled nerves. Clive’s friendly grin and the pint he’d already ordered for Martin were equally welcome.

“All right, mate?” Clive’s grin eased a bit as he took in Martin’s appearance. “You look a bit rough. Do I take it... Douglas didn’t take it well?”

Martin took a huge gulp of his beer then let out a sigh. “You could say that.”

For the next half hour he explained the series of mishaps and miscommunications that had led to Martin’s inadvertent confession and the subsequent row.

“I think we’ve sort of... made up a bit now? But... Oh, God... the way he looks at me, Clive. And the casual digs.” Martin shuddered and stared at the table top as if he could actually see through it. “Of all the people to find out. I used to be terrified Carolyn would find out and fire me. Or somehow my brother would find out and...” he blanched. “But _Douglas_ I mean... Douglas. He’s _everything_. He’s half the reason I... and now...” He tipped his face back to look desolately at Clive. “What do I _do_?”

Clive was frowning. “That’s really how it went?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just something Monique said.” Clive shook his head. “Look, Martin, I...it’s tough. I’ve only had a couple of people find out and I am dead lucky they didn’t tell Lucy’s mum. One of them was my brother – that was awkward but,” he chuckled darkly and swigged the dregs of his beer, slamming the glass back onto its coaster, “since my family had already excommunicated me, his reaction was pretty much to tell me they’d always expected me to end up as gutter trash. I was lucky I’d had a few years to distance myself from them by then, but,” he met Martin’s gaze, “yes, it still hurt. Hurts. Of course.

“The other was a close friend from uni. She found out about me _and_ Cassie - the girl who got me started - as it happens. She wasn’t horrible about it, at all. But she was uncomfortable and things were awkward between us all. Eventually the friendship lapsed. I still miss her.” His fingers were tapping restlessly on the table. He looked at Martin’s half-drunk beer. “Do you want another? I’m getting one.”

He was up and heading to the bar without waiting for a response. Martin thudded back in the vinyl booth seat, staring morosely at the foam dripping down the inside of his glass.

Another one clunked down on the table, shocking him back to the present. Clive was already drinking as Martin thanked him and the table was vibrating from the incessant jigging of Clive’s leg.

“I’m sorry, Clive. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s fine. I just hadn’t thought about them in a while. You know how it is in this job – you get used to shutting things out.”

 

They shared equally unsmiling smiles.

 

“I don’t know what you do about Douglas. Are you sure he doesn’t... I mean Monique made it sound as if he might... _you know_...” Clive waved his beer eloquently in the general direction of Martin’s chest. For someone who could wax lyrical about sex toys and got gooey-eyed at the mention of his daughter, he was remarkably awkward on the subject of love.

“He says he does,” Martin admitted softly. “Or, at least. He said he _did_. I think tense might be important.”

“Martin. Are you sure it’s _Douglas’s_ disapproval you’re worrying about?”

Martin shot him a confused look.

“Do you remember me saying right at the start that some people can get through the headfuck and some people can’t? It took me a couple of months before it hit me. And a couple more to get through. But you, mate, I’ve been watching you tear yourself to bits since you started. Only I was letting it go because you were also walking taller. I thought maybe you’d come through it.”

Martin plucked at a spare coaster, mindlessly flipping it against the edge of the table.

“I’m not saying Douglas won’t have some issues with... what you do. But if you look at it from his perspective, that was a pretty big shock you gave him. Especially if he’s been... uh, harbouring... feelings for you. He hasn’t exactly had a chance to mull things over.

“I, um, don’t suppose you’ve told him how _you_ feel, have you?”

Martin was horrified. “Of course not!”

“Why?”

“Because...” he gestured disgustedly at himself... “he’s not going to want to know someone like _me_ is in lo- um, cares about...”

Clive raised an eyebrow. “'Someone like you'? You mean a ‘dirty rent boy’?”

Martin flushed as Clive hit the nail on the head. “Oh, stop it. You know that’s not how I think–” _of anyone except myself._

Clive raised the other eyebrow. And his glass. He did know. Both the spoken and unspoken parts of that sentence. He sipped his beer pointedly.

“I couldn’t tell him. Especially not now.”

“I don’t know. I think you could. I think you might just make his day.”

Martin imagined the gleefully scathing remarks Douglas was liable to lob his way. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

Clive put his glass, and his eyebrows, back down. “All right then, what _do_ you want to do? Look, the worst has happened. The one person you didn’t want to find out HAS found out. Now regardless of his more intimate feelings on the subject, he’s clearly still willing to be friends and he’s not going to get you fired. So... really, in broad terms, you’re no worse off than you were before. Except he knows. All you have to decide is whether **you** are actually happy with your life.”

 

Martin stilled for a moment.

 

“No.”

“No?”

Martin drained his glass and heaved a sigh as he pulled his second towards him. “No, Clive. I am not happy with my life. You’re right. I’m not coping. **_Lachlan_** does just fine, most of the time, but _I‘m_ the one who deals with the fallout. _I’m_ the one who has to lie, who doesn’t sleep... who doesn’t cope.

"I’ve got compartmentalising down to a fine art. And it isn’t working for me. But I don’t know what to do. Nothing has changed. If I quit, I go back to what? Intermittent van jobs and no pay. I’ll be back in debt in no time. No further forward but a mighty fine reputation as a whore.”

Another half glass drained before he met Clive’s eyes.

“I should never have got you into this.”

“No, Clive, it’s not... really.” Martin huffed a laugh. “You were right. I _do_ make good money. I’m just not... this isn’t...” he shrugged. “It’s not your fault, and it’s really not your problem. You have done more than enough to help me. You’re right, I need to sort my own head – and life – out.”

***

By the time they left, Martin was feeling slightly more positive – if only because at least he’d acknowledged a few things to himself. Clive pointed out that even with van repairs and putting money aside for expenses, Martin could have afforded to move into a better flat some months ago. It occurred to Martin that his failure to do so was less to do with not recognising the change in his financial status and more to do with the fact that he’d never really considered this to be a long-term lifestyle change. He suspected Monique would accuse him of lacking ambition and imagination – and perhaps that was true.

But it was Clive’s simple question that really resolved it for him. He _wasn’t_ happy. What made him happy was the same thing that had always had made him happy. Flying. He’d spent his life working towards that goal and he’d finally got the job he loved. At some point, though, he seemed to have stopped fighting for Captain Crieff and life _he_ really wanted. _He’d_ been left to coast along where he’d landed – in an unpaid gig - while “Icarus Removals Martin” was suddenly doing whatever it took just to keep a roof over their heads. Perhaps, he decided, it was time for Captain Crieff to fight back.


	11. Chapter 11

_Lachlan_ strode purposefully into Carolyn’s office two days later, hat under his arm, hair carefully styled, uniform still ill-fitting but somehow...irrelevant given the confidence radiating off the man himself.

“Carolyn, I’ve got another job.”

“What. Martin...” Carolyn hadn’t looked up when Martin entered but she did so now. Huffing with impatience.

Martin raised one of Lachlan’s impeccable brows. “I’ve got another job. It pays well and the conditions are pretty decent...”

“Why, you snivelling-”

He raised a hand to forestall the rant. “Snivelling? Hardly. As I say. I have **_got_** another job, Carolyn. But I’d prefer not to kee- ah, take it. I’d prefer to stay with MJN. If we can come to some sort of... mutually agreeable arrangement.”

Carolyn looked completely wrong-footed by this suddenly confident approach. Martin focused on that and tried to ignore the nervous sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.

“Martin, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, what self-help courses you’ve been doing, or what sort of game you think you’re playing, but we’ve been over this before. If this is some sort of attempt to get me to–”

“Pay me? A decent wage? As legally required? Yes, it might be that...”

“–IF THIS IS some sort of attempt to get me to pay you then I have to remind you, Martin, nothing has changed since we last spoke of this. I don’t have the money. We can’t afford it.”

“Well here’s the thing, Carolyn. Things _have_ changed. _I_ can’t afford to _stay_. Look, I’ve been working for you for how many years now with no pay? I’ve told you what my living conditions are like. Did you think they’d magically healed up?”

“I–”

“Now, I know business has improved. I know because we have been flying more. This means MJN makes _more money_. Conversely, it means your CAPTAIN has been making _less_ money since he hasn’t had time to work at his paying job. You say you can’t afford to pay me to fly; I can’t afford to keep flying unpaid. If I leave, you’ll lose business since your flight options are limited with only one pilot and even _I_ know no one else would be stupid enough to take this position under the same conditions I did. Seems a shame to let MJN sink just when things are going so well, don’t you think?”

“You–”

“I don’t expect you to match the rates I am... er... would be, getting in my new job...”

“Oh, DON’T you?” Carolyn finally exploded into the gap in Martin’s rant. “Oh, that’s terribly decent of you, Martin. What makes you think I’ll be meeting anything at all?”

“B-because you need me.”

“Do I.”

That wasn’t a question. _That_ was an unnervingly sharp glare.

“Um. Yes. You do.

“As I say. I don’t expect you to meet the rates I could get at my new job. But, ah, perhaps you could, um, at least meet the rates I was getting as a man with a van?”

“Oh, Martin,” came a voice behind him. “And you were doing so well. Carolyn, I know for a fact MJN is no longer in debt, and you could have afforded to start paying Martin at least a junior pilot’s wage several months back.”

“What?”

“Douglas...”

“Hello chaps! Gosh, you look different, Skip! What are we all talking about?”

“Your mother was just explaining to Martin how MJN could survive without a captain.”

“What? No we couldn’t! Why would we want to? Where are you going, Skip?”

“I...well. Wait. Douglas - I had this...Arthur...”

“Mum!”

“Arthur–”

“Carolyn...”

“ARTHUR. Douglas. _OUT_. Martin. _Sit_.” Carolyn was firm. Martin was silent. So was Arthur as he followed Douglas meekly out of Carolyn’s office.

“How long?” asked Martin, ignoring the chair in front of him. Lachlan seemed to have ducked out during the kerfuffle, leaving Martin standing there unarmoured, twisting his fingers together slightly awkwardly.

But only _slightly_ awkwardly.

Carolyn cleared her throat and shuffled some papers briskly on her desk. “Look. It’s only been a couple of months. Douglas, as you well know, is prone to exaggeration...” She wasn’t quite looking him in the eye.

“But not _actually_ lying. You _could_ have been paying me.” The swaggering faux confidence was replaced with steely...or at least slightly bendy aluminium... resolve. Which was better than the defeat that had coloured his interactions with her up to now.

“Well...”

“You could start now.”

“Yes. All right.”

“Because–”

“I said yes, Martin. Minimum wage. Starting now. And I’ll backdate it one month.”

“Oh!”

“But that’s it. Don’t come crawling back in here in another month expecting me to match another job offer. We’re an air _dot_ , Martin, not an air _line_. You can’t possibly expect me to give you whatever fancy perks they’re offering you, and if that’s what you’re after...”

“Thank you, Carolyn ... and no.”

“Good. Now get out of my office.”

 

 

***

Three months later, Douglas was sipping an orange juice in the foyer bar of their dingy hotel in Hong Kong when his date sauntered in. Clad in slim-fitting trousers and a tight silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Martin cut quite a dashing figure, weaving lithely between the close-packed tables towards where Douglas sat. He slid onto the stool next to him and offered a small grin.

“Been waiting long?”

Douglas took a moment to admire the ginger curls tumbling artlessly across Martin’s forehead - such a transformation from the slicked-back captain he’d flown in with only a couple of hours before. He reached up to stroke one hand down the side of Martin’s face and pulled him in for a soft kiss.

“Far, far too long.”

Martin smiled against his lips. “Are you ready for dinner, or...?”

“I think perhaps...‘ _Or_ ’.” Douglas rested both hands on Martin’s waist as he slid off his stool; still kissing Martin lightly, oblivious to the glances they were drawing from the other bar patrons.

Martin moved his hands to cover Douglas’s and slithered off his own stool to stand not quite pressed against Douglas. He pulled back a little and cocked his head. “Well then, shall we?” He tugged Douglas’s hands meaningfully and turned to walk back towards the elevators just outside the bar entrance, fingers of his left hand still entwined with Douglas’s.

Douglas absolutely didn’t stumble across the foyer as Martin drew level with the buttons and pushed the one to take them upstairs. It was Martin who hauled Douglas into the thankfully empty lift and wrapped his arms around him after stabbing the button for the fifth floor, muttering words of adoration into his mouth.

It surely wasn’t Douglas who was panting breathlessly against their hotel room door five minutes later. Not the self-proclaimed Sky God rendered helpless by skilful slender fingers that had insinuated their way inside his shirt...

Martin took charge of actually getting the door (and Douglas’s trousers) open and manoeuvring them both into the room and better state of privacy. Douglas came to himself enough to run his hands down that lovely silk-wrapped chest, wandering further to find what might be tucked inside those deliciously tight trousers, careless of anything that was being done to him. A deep-throated groan and a hot mouth on his jawline was his reward...then a hard shove at his chest and he found himself tumbling naked back onto the bed, a vision of red curls disappearing between his legs to...

_Oooh..._

_My..._

That was quite...

A talent...

Which...

He probably needed to stop before...

Oh, he had... _Goodness_.

 

The way Martin was sliding up the bed HAD to be illegal.

Douglas was fairly certain he’d forgotten how to breathe. Which didn’t actually seem all that important. Sight was far more relevant.

And touch. Touch was good.

He reached out to help Martin remove his own shirt. And his... oh yes. His obscene trousers.

That was an awfully clever hip swivel that had those off so quickly. And...

 

 _My, my..._.

 

How on earth had Martin been keeping THAT hidden in _those_?

Douglas’s breath hitched. Martin caught his eye and chuckled.

“Martin. How are you...?”

Martin _shifted_... “Douglas,” he breathed, “I _told_ you.” He began to ... _move_... “I am very...” Douglas shuddered... “ _very_ ,” Douglas moaned and gripped Martin’s hips... “ _good_ at this.”

Maybe a bit too good. Douglas groaned as Martin seized his lips in a deep and demanding kiss, and eventually threw his head back in a desperate gasp for air as his orgasm took him; somehow managing to fumble between them to grasp Martin, still hard and throbbing and, as Martin kissed his throat, pumping him to completion until they both collapsed in sticky exhaustion.

 

It was some minutes before either of them could speak.

Douglas finally managed to summon up something close to his usual laconic drawl. “I don’t often say this, Martin, so treasure this moment... but, you’re right.”

Martin rolled his head lazily to look at Douglas, an eyebrow raised in query.

“You _are_ good at that.” Douglas explained.

Martin snorted, actually snorted, with laughter. Which rather ruined any arch effect Douglas had aimed for.

 

Although really, that had already been ruined by the breathlessness of his delivery.

 

Well, that and the fact that he’d been practically speechless since Martin had propositioned him back in Fitton that morning.

 

 _Possibly_ it had been ruined ever since they’d begun making what Carolyn referred to as “moon eyes” at each other after Martin had resigned from Monique’s employ and, apparently, gained a clarity of vision that meant he’d finally, _finally_ noticed that Douglas’s Berlin declaration had in no way been “past tense”.

 

A stuttering confession of his own, and an enthusiastic courtship, had followed.

 

But still.

Douglas felt he managed an impressively sardonic blink in response to Martin’s laughter that certainly made it clear he wasn’t that easily undone... a conviction that worked on both of them – at least until Martin leaned over and began kissing him again...

 

 

~ _ **finis**_ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read, commented and clicked the happiness-inducing kudos button.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt/link: <http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4885.html?thread=7730453#cmt7730453>


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